


Okay

by SquigglyAverageJoe



Series: IjustreallywanttofindawaytowriteaboutredemptionandshitandIhavemanyfanficideas. [5]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Excessive Drinking, Family Issues, Flashbacks, Heroin, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex Worker Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Suicidal Thoughts, Valentino Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29646681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquigglyAverageJoe/pseuds/SquigglyAverageJoe
Summary: Newly freed from his contract with Valentino, Angel works on his relationship problems with his family and his worsening mental health as he tries to get cleanagain.But nothing in Hell is ever easy. If recovery’s an uphill battle, how hard is redemption gonna be?
Series: IjustreallywanttofindawaytowriteaboutredemptionandshitandIhavemanyfanficideas. [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107536
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to Nome! Yay!
> 
> Nome actually got a _weird_ amount of attention (like, more than I really thought it would), and I’ve been holding onto this idea for a bit, and I just really like Arackniss for some reason (even though there’s so little to know about his character right now because he has yet to show up in any episode, because, you know, all we have is the pilot), so I’m writing another thing to focus on Angel’s relationship with his family and his mental health. Fun stuff!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

For some reason, mail came to the hotel unreasonably early in the morning.

It wasn’t exactly a problem. Husk was usually awake pretty early, and sometimes Vaggie was too, and sometimes Niffty, and... sometimes Alastor (basically everyone but Angel and Charlie, Angel because he liked to sleep, and Charlie because Vaggie just wanted to let her girlfriend get a bit more rest because she was sure it was hard to be that enthusiastic and nice all the time), but...

This wasn’t necessarily the mail. It was a bit too late for that (not much later, but three hours later than the time it usually came) and Vaggie just heard someone drop something, knock rapidly, before footsteps retreated away, quicker than they had come.

Whoever it was was gone long before Vaggie got to the door—a package sat in front. She picked it up and stepped inside, looking it over. “Was... anyone expecting a package?” She asked.

No one was—she looked it over, and finally noticed _Angel Dust,_ written in black marker, cursive, on the box. “I guess it’s Angel’s.”

A voice sounded from the staircase, tired and slightly slurred (hopefully from fatigue). “Whazzat?”

Vaggie turned—sure enough, Angel was coming down the stairs, trying to fix his hair. He looked slightly disheveled, but (un?)alive and, frankly, awake, was more than what she really wanted to ask of him. “You got a package.”

Angel stopped, blinked slowly down at her. “Is it tickin’?”

She glanced down at it—and then back up at him when she thought about it. _“Why_ would it be ticking?”

”Sometimes, Cherri and I send each other pipe bombs,” he responded. “You know, to keep us on our toes.”

She could not have kept the alarm off her face, even if she tried. “She lives here now!” She gestured to the stairs (she didn’t _know_ where Cherri was, but she was somewhere). “Wha—why—don’t bring pipe bombs into the hotel!”

Angel took a step closer and took the box out of her hands—and then dropped it with a scream. Niffty and Husk looked up from the bar where they stood. Before Vaggie could ask _what the fuck_ that was, Angel stepped back and said, “It _moved!_ ”

Vaggie looked down at the box—it moved _again_ , and made a noise, something like an inhale.

Frowning, Angel pulled a box knife out of his top (“Do you keep a lot of box knives up there?” Niffty asked, sitting on the counter and kicking her feet idly, watching this whole thing cheerfully.) and cut into the box.

He gasped loudly. _“OH MY GOD!_ ” The worst possible scenarios filled Vaggie’s mind (a limb? A severed head? A pipe bomb that wasn’t sent from Cherri?), and then Angel reached into the box and pulled out a pig. _“I LOVE THEM!”_ He shouted.

Niffty was gnawing on an ice cube. “Angel, why was Fat Nuggets in that box?”

Vaggie looked closer at it—squirming in Angel’s hands was a small, pink animal that looked like Fat Nuggets in the way that it was small, pink and a pig, but it was very obviously different. A bit smaller, maybe, with spots in different places.. “Oh, ya poor _baby_ ,” Angel gushed. “I’m sorry I dropped ya—I didn’t know ya were a cutie.”

”Who the _fuck_ gave you a second pig?” Husk asked, watching with something akin to horror on his face.

”I dunno, but if I ever meet them, ya can bet I’ll tell ‘em how much I appreciate it.” The pig yawned. “Poor baby, are you okay?” He looked the pig over but didn’t apparently find any injuries. “Oh, Nuggs is gonna be so excited to have a siblin’. Fuck, I’m gonna find whoever dropped ya off, and go to _town_ on them—aren’t ya a li’l sweetie? Oh, god, I’m already attached to ya.”

”What are you gonna name it?” Niffty asked.

”Peaches, I already fuckin’ decided, I fuckin’ love this pig, I’m gonna go introduce them to Nuggs— _now._ ” Without another word, he walked up the stairs, bumping into Charlie but was already gone before she could finish her greeting.

”Angel looks like he’s in a good mood,” she said, finishing her descent down the stairs. “This is the first time I’ve seen him this week.”

”I think it’s the first time he’s left his room this week,” Vaggie said.

Niffty shook her head, squeezing the ice cube in her hand. “No,” she said. “He helped me in the kitchen last night, with dinner.”

”Oh?” Charlie fixed her hair. “He did?”

”Yeah! He went on a rant about how much turtle neck sweaters sucked, dissed bullet bras for like thirty minutes while he stabbed a tomato and threatened me with a pair of scissors when I tried to touch him.”

Everyone took pause. Charlie turned back to her. “He what?”

”Yeah, I thought it was weird too,” Niffty said. “I mean, I kind of like turtle neck sweaters, but he said they were itchy and conservative and that only elderly lesbians and librarians wear them—“

”No,” Charlie interrupted. “I mean—he _threatened_ you?”

”Huh?” That ice cube in her hand was just about water now. “Oh, yeah! It was weird. He got all quiet and he looked really upset, so I tried to comfort him, but he jumped a foot in the air and told me if I tried to do something like that again, he’d stab me. I was really confused, I thought we were friends, but he said he was sorry—I think he’s a bit paranoid, he mentioned he hasn’t been sleeping well, I’m kinda worried about him.”

Husk grasped her shoulder gently. “Are you okay, kid?”

”Yeah! I’m fine!” She was still chatty, talkative—maybe it hadn’t really fazed her. It was Hell, so there was always a worse thing that could happen, but it was still concerning. “He said he was sorry, it just kind of surprised me, I don’t think he meant it.”

”Who we talking about?” Cherri asked, suddenly appearing in the lobby, tying up her hair.

”Angel!” Niffty chirped.

Cherri frowned—her voice came out quieter than it usually was. “What’d he do?”

Vaggie spoke up, looking the box over for a return address or a sender (it had none, just _Angel Dust_ , in marker). “He threatened Niffty last night.”

Cherri turned, looked back at the stairs with a grimace. “Yesterday was... rough on him.”

”A rough day isn’t an excuse for threatening Niffty,” Vaggie said, picked up the box from the floor. “I mean, on top of just being rude as fuck, I’m getting concerned—that’s his third outburst this month.”

Charlie frowned, biting her lip. “How long has he been clean?”

”Two days now,” Cherri said—two days since his last relapse. He was five days clean before that. In general, Angel was just having a really hard time staying clean. “...The first few days are usually the hardest.”

”Still,” Charlie said. “...I’ll talk to him later, maybe we’re missing something.” She wanted to believe they were missing something—she thought things were better now! Angel didn’t have to go to work, didn’t have to deal with Valentino, and was able to safely get clean now—maybe he had something else.

”What’s with the box?” Cherri asked.

Husk was wiping the bar down. “Angel got a new pig.”

Cherri looked up at him. “You serious?”

”I wish I wasn’t.”

”Fuck yeah!” Cherri said. “You can _never_ have enough pigs.”

Vaggie was pretty sure two was more than enough, but at least it was a cute pig.

There was a ton of benefits to having six arms. The first one had always been that six arms made masturbation a _lot_ more fun. Like, a _lot_ more fun. Sex with other people too. There had been a reason he had done so many gangbang pornos, and that reason was those hands were _useful._ And in fights? There was few better feelings than that the look on an enemie’s face when he pulled out two extra tommy guns gave him, it was up there with angel dust.

And, of course, he could cuddle _two_ pigs at the same time. “I love them,” he said. “I love them both. I’ve had Peaches for like, ten minutes, but I love them. I mean, I have to love Nuggets more, ‘cause I always told Nuggs that even if he wasn’t my only pig, he’d be my favorite, and I ain’t a liar, and what kind of a Mama lies to his pig? But like, I still love Peaches. I love both of them. God. I love my pigs.”

Cherri chuckled. “They’re both cute.”

”Super cute.”

“Really cute.”

Angel leaned up against his headboard, tilted his head back in a yawn, but didn’t stop giving his pigs scratches for the life of him. “Angie, are you okay?” Cherri asked.

”Never better, Sugartits,” he responded. “...As good as I can be, at least—Niss is comin’ over later, so we can talk. It’s normal for siblin’s to talk, right?”

She guessed she wouldn’t know for sure, being an only child and all, but she _assumed_ it was. Also, she always noticed when Angel changed the subject. “You look like you haven’t slept in a fortnight, Angel.”

He smirked. “What’re ya talkin’ ‘bout? I’m the hottest piece of meat in this circle of Hell, Cherri.”

”You are,” she said. “Let’s face it, Angel, you’re _super_ hot, but...”

...Angel never did like to get all heavy like this—if she kept pressing, she would push Angel away. He’d get uncomfortable, he’d stop talking, and things would get awkward, _and_ it wouldn’t do anything. She settled with, “You know you can talk to me, right?” She said. “About whatever. Really.”

“Alright, Cherri,” he said. He was still petting his pigs. God. He had two pigs.

At the very least, because he wasn’t going to work at the studio every day, Husk wouldn’t be dealing with two pigs every morning—this was a good enough time for a second pig, Cherri supposed, since Angel now had the time to love them properly. He had been spending the last couple of days focusing his time and energy on being the best mama he could be and sometimes texting Arackniss and sometimes trying to stay clean.

He had two pigs, had yet to get in a fistfight with his brother, and a two day clean streak under his belt—Cherri told herself Angel could easily make it three.

”I better get ready,” Angel sighed. “Put on some clothes and pretend to be a functional demon ‘fore Niss visits.” He still didn’t stop petting his pigs. “ _Fuck,_ I need a drink.”

Charlie had been trying to encourage Angel to peruse reconnecting with his brother—she wasn’t sure if it’d help with _redemption,_ because it probably wouldn’t, but she hoped, she _really hoped_ that it might help with _recovery_.

”He seemed fine,” Cherri said, when she came downstairs—Husk handed her some weird, pink cocktail at the bar, Niffty sprinted around in the background, making sure the lobby was clean. “Tired, though.”

Tired. Charlie could understand tired! They had gotten his contract just about a week and a half ago, it was understandable, really, that he’d be tired, he could recover just a bit longer, and they’d focus on betterment _later._

She tried not to be discouraged by how much he struggled to stay clean—he kept trying, but he somehow always wound up high again, except now, it was on two different drugs. Did that mean it took the twice effort? Charlie couldn’t be sure, she had never gotten addicted—maybe she could talk to Vaggie? Maybe there was something online? Anything she could do, to understand, to find something that’d let her help.

...She wondered if she was in over her head.

The door to the lobby opened and Arackniss entered, looking just about as pissed off as he had looked the last time Charlie had seen him—honestly, it was probably just his face. “Hi, Arackniss—you here for Angel?”

”Yeah,” he said. “He’s here, right?”

“In his room,” Cherri sighed. “He’ll probably be down in a second—he got another pig.”

 _”Another_ pig?” Arackniss asked.

”Yeah. They’re beautiful, you’ll love them.”

A second passed. Charlie went ahead and shot Angel a text, telling him Arackniss was there, because he probably didn’t know. Angel didn’t text back.

Seconds stretched into minutes, reaching fifteen before Cherri got up again. “I’ll go get him,” she said, and walked away quickly, ponytail bouncing.

Arackniss awkwardly shifted on his feet. “How’s he been doin’?” He asked. “With the whole...”

Not good. He had started drinking more, to the point where she, Vaggie and Alastor were slowly coming to accept they were going to need to start cutting both him and Husk back on the alcohol, which was going to make them both miserable. They had all been trying to offer some support through the hallucinations, and the seizures, but it was hard enough to make Angel _acknowledge_ they were offering help, harder to get him to accept he needed help, _hardest_ to make him accept the fucking help they were offering. “He’s trying,” she said. “And so long as he _is_ trying...”

That was all they needed. A little bit of effort on his part, and they’d do what they could to help—and they’d do more to help if Angel let them. Arackniss nodded, chewing on his bottom lip.

...Was it bad a part of Charlie wished Angel would try a little more?

Ugh, she was being stupid—it hadn’t been long since they’d managed to get Angel’s contract, it made sense he was tired. Trying to get clean, trying to recover, and now he was trying to form a relationship with his brother—Charlie should be more considerate, less judgmental. He only really needed time.

She bounced on her heels a minute and then turned towards the stairs. “...I’m going to go check on them. Just to make sure they didn’t, like, set the hotel on fire.” It was meant to be a joke, but it really wasn’t all that funny.

Angel’s door was ajar, Cherri trying to wrestle him off the bed. “Come _on_ , Angie, you were fine three minutes ago!”

He went limp in her arms and fell back into bed, face pressed against his pillow. “Angel,” Cherri moaned.

”Is he okay?” Charlie asked, stepping in and closing the door behind her—Angel might want his privacy. “Arackniss’ been waiting for a minute...”

”Tell ‘im ta leave,” Angel said, but his voice was super muffled because his face was in a pillow. His pigs were playing in the corner happily. “I’m not gettin’ up.”

Charlie blinked. “You’re not?”

”There’s no way in Hell either o’ ya are gettin’ me outta bed, there’s just _not,_ ” Angel told her.

“Don’t you _want_ to see Arackniss?”

He was silent—no? Yes? She didn’t know, it was impossible to tell. She turned to Cherri. “Does he usually get like this during withdrawals?” She asked.

Cherri crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah, just about—don’t blame him, though, PCP can kick your ass. Least he isn’t hallucinating anymore.” She sighed, stretching her arms over her head and behind her until her spine _cracked_. “Let’s just let him simmer here for a bit—Angel, you need anything, just text me, alright?” Angel didn’t respond. “Love you, Angie.” His body tensed, gloved hands fisting into the blanket. Without another word (and without a response from Angel), Cherri grabbed her arm and shoved her out the door, shutting the door behind herself. “Yeah, he’s not coming out for awhile.”

”You’ve dealt with him like this before?” She asked.

”Yeah,” she said. “It’s not any fun to deal with him, but I doubt it’s any fun to _be_ like this, so give him a break.”

...Alright. She could handle letting him off the hook—sure, sloth was a sin or whatever, but he deserved a quick break. It’d be fine.

”Sorry, short stack,” Cherri said, coming down the stairs. “Angel feels like shit—he’s not taking visitors.”

Arackniss looked from her back to Charlie. “You fuckin’ serious?”

”I don’t think he’s feeling well,” she said. “You’ve seen the symptoms for PCP withdrawals, right?” They were pretty nasty. “I’m sorry you came all this way, but I really don’t think he’s up for it.”

Arackniss took a step away. “Where’s his room?” He asked.

She paused a moment. “...Third floor. Room forty seven—I’m glad you’re concerned about him, but I don’t think he’s gonna come down, Arackniss.”

”Then I’ll go up,” he said. “I’m not leavin’ so he can just mope in his room or whatever—bastard made me dodge my family all day, walk across town and all this way so he can sleep off a hangover or somethin’? Not happenin’—sixty seven?”

”Yeah, there’s like, twenty rooms on each floor,” she said.

”Cool,” Arackniss said. “I’ll go piss my brother off, thanks.”

Without another word, he moved towards the stairs and disappeared. “Is Angel going to be mad at us for sending his brother up?” She asked, figuring Cherri would know.

Cherri shrugged. “I’m not an expert, but I think the whole point of siblings _is_ to piss each other off. I’m sure he’ll understand.” This was actually reassuring. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a small bottle of ibuprofen, muttered something like, “God, my hangover sucks ass.” Charlie was about to walk away, but apparently, Cherri wasn’t finished. “—assuming the two of them don’t snap each other’s necks in a fight or some shit.”

He pounded on the door. “Angel? You fuckin’ alive?” Angel groaned, on the other side of the door. “Yeah, good to see you too—you fuckin’ cancel, when I’m already fuckin’ _here_?” He crossed a pair of arms—Angel didn’t respond. “Can I come in?”

No response. “Alright, fuck that—I ain’t askin’, I’m _warnin’_ you, I’m coming in.” He paused a minute, and then opened the door.

It wasn’t locked or anything. Angel laid face down in bed, dressed in all of his usual attire. “Are you _always_ wearin’ those thigh highs?” He asked, standing in the doorway. At the sound of his voice, Fat Nuggets snorted and started to walk towards him, but a second pig (oh, god, his brother really _did_ have a second pig now) stretched and moved much slower. He went ahead and scooped up Nuggets. “You startin’ a collection of these li’l shits, Tony?”

The moment it came out, he knew he used the wrong name, but Angel didn’t bother to correct him. “...My bad,” he said. He took a step closer to the bed. “You’re not dead, right?” He asked. The second pig started sniffing his shoe, like it didn’t know how to feel about him just yet. “Can you like, say somethin’?” A beat of silence. “Should I go get Charlie or—“

”M _erda santa_ , Niss, I’m _fine._ ” His exasperation showed fine, although it, like the rest of his voice, was muffled—the sudden use of Italian caught him off guard. “Just feelin’ like I’m gonna pass out, I’m not goin’ down those fuckin’ stairs so I can fall into another seizure mid-step.” A pause. “ _Again.”_

 _“Comprensibile_ ,” he breathed and sat on the edge of the bed. At least Angel was talking to him—his silence had freaked him out for a minute. “...Not sure why I’m even here, dunno what there really is to talk about.”

”Dunno,” Angel said, and sighed before turning his head to look at him. “Catch up or somethin’? Have a heart to heart?”

”Eh, I feel like we had enough o’ that shit already,” Arackniss said, simply. “How many heart to hearts can you have with someone before you just don’t got a heart no more?”

”Hate to break it to ya, Niss, but I don’t got a heart no more—I’ve had too many heart to hearts in our group therapy sessions at this hotel, and I just don’t got one.”

”So, technically,” he said. “You can have as many as you fuckin’ want, because you don’t got a second one to give.”

”Exactly.” He pushed his head back into his pillow. “Not like it’s gonna grow back or somethin’.”

Arackniss patted his head awkwardly—at least his hair was soft. “How’s your pigs?”

”They’re my babies and they’re confused ‘cause I’m a fuckin’ wreck.” Arackniss wasn’t sure if, when he said, _They’re my babies,_ he was talking about how they were doing, or trying to correct him, to get him to stop calling them pigs or whatever. “How’s the wife?” Apparently, he wasn’t going to pretend to care about their parents—it honestly made it easier.

”She’s alright—she’s been singin’ along to a metal cover of the same old song for the last three days straight, and uh...” He paused. Maybe he shouldn’t say this? “...she’s been fuckin’ a mechanic so I think we need some time apart.”

Angel looked up at him for a minute. “She’s what?”

”There’s a word for it,” he said. “Besides uh, just queer? I told her I’d do research or whatever, but like... Yeah, she’s fucking a mechanic.”

Angel rubbed his eyes. “Your wife’s _cheatin’_ on ya?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s cheatin’ if I know about it.”

Still dumbfounded, he continued to stare. “This some sort of cuckold situation, or...?”

”Nah,” he said. “We’re gettin’ a divorce. Eventually. We talked it out like adults, then she fucked a mechanic.” This made perfect sense to him, he tried to ignore how confused his brother was. “She... said she was a cute mechanic, so...”

”Uh huh.” Angel flipped onto his back. “So, just to clarify—your wife, the opera singer our parents like, that ya’ve been married to for like, over seventy years... Fucked a mechanic. And is leaving ya for that mechanic.”

”No, she’s just leavin’ in general— _and_ she fucked a mechanic.”

“...What?”

”You got a problem with her fuckin’ a mechanic?...Lia always did have a thing for blondes.”

”No, I’m just confused.”

”Huh.”

There was a pause. “I’m askin’ for her,” he said. “...How do you like... go about. Bein’ a queer.”

”Damn.” Angel reached over to pet his pig. “Supportin’ your soon to be ex-wife after she chose a mechanic over ya, aren’t you a gent.”

”That’s—“ He hesitated. “...Yeah, exactly.”

”Jesus—ya must really like her.”

”...Exactly.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So, like... how do you do it? You just... _are?_ ”

”No,” Angel said. “You gotta go to the Department of Queerdom, and fill out a bunch o’ paperwork. They’ll give ya some sorta ID thing, to put on your driver’s license, that way if anyone asks if ya are a queer, ya can be properly identified as one.”

”...You made that all up just now, huh?” Arackniss asked—the driver’s license bit gave him away.

”Yeah.” Angel rubbed his eyes again. “I did. No one down here’s got a driver’s license.” He sighed. “Why the fuck is it so warm in here?” It was sixty degrees outside exactly. “Ugh, I’m changin’ real quick, I feel like I’m meltin’.” He forced himself to stand and stepped towards his closet. “Sorry ‘bout your wife, though.”

”It’s fine.” Angel shut the door to his closet, but they continued to talk through it. “What’d you name this pig anyway?” He asked.

”Peaches!” Angel asked. “I decided on the spot—they’re my second baby.”

”...They?” Peaches was still sniffing his shoe. “Think it’s just one pig, Angel.”

”Yeah, but I don’t know their gender. They don’t fuckin’ care, they’re a pig, pigs don’t got any concept of gender identity, they don’t mind.”

He supposed he couldn’t argue with that. “...Cute pig, though,” he said.

”Aw, Niss, are my babies growin’ on ya?” He laughed—the closet door opened. He was just wearing a pair of old, white shorts and a baggy, pink t-shirt.

”Sure.”

Angel walked back into his bed, and sat down, rubbing his temples. “So, how’s life without Valentino?” Arackniss asked, wanting to change the subject away from the “mechanic.”

”Non-existent,” Angel groaned. “He won’t quit textin’ me. Offerin’ me drugs.” And another contract. Sometimes, they were just offers. Sometimes, they were threats veiled behind niceties and pet names, making it all the more obvious that his patience was wearing thin.

”Don’t text back,” Arackniss responded, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “He can’t tell you what to do no more.”

It wasn’t that easy. Valentino would kill him the next time he saw him—worse yet, Angel would stand there and take it because he was a coward when it came to Valentino. He shrugged, Arackniss must have noticed the sudden change in his demeanor because he backtracked. “How’s uh... work? You know, with all... that.”

Angel sighed. “Haven’t been doin’ much work recently.” He hadn’t been doing much of anything.

The plan was a break. He’d take a quick break, a week or two off, and then he’d probably get back into work—maybe a few cam shows, performances at clubs Valentino didn’t own, or maybe just a quick fuck on the street corner. He was still thinking it over—he knew he wanted to continue sex work, it sounded way more fun than any other jobs (the first two jobs that came to mind that didn’t involve sex work was waiter and hitman, and he thought he was a bit too sexy for both), but things would change (no more having sex with women! No more unreasonable hours! No more putting up with too handsy, too rough Johns!), he knew that much.

He just... didn’t have the energy to do anything. Probably for the best, he didn’t imagine much of Hell wanting to fuck him when he was clammy, sweating bullets, ready to throw up and ready to kill someone—it was not a good combination. “You really wanna hear ‘bout work?” He asked Arackniss.

”Am I supposed to let you talk about work, because like, a brother thing?”

”I won’t talk about all the big dick men I’m fuckin’—“ Arackniss kept his face surprisingly blank. “—if ya avoid bringin’ up our parents?”

”Deal.”

”Alright—I’ll only tell you about the small dick ones.”

”Angel, I will tear your fuckin’ head off.”

They lapsed back into quiet after a short minute—pretty common between the two of them, Angel guessed, though there was something there that had never been present in life, something that did keep the two of them from murdering each other.

He supposed tons of things were different now. They each had four more limbs then they did in life, he didn’t have any sort of relationship with his parents, had talked to them in his afterlife enough to count on one hand, Angel was out and proud now and Molly wasn’t here.

...He didn’t want to think about his sister, he decided. Not right now, not unless he was high, but he was trying to get clean still—

“Fuck, I need a drink,” he said.

Arackniss nodded. “Could use a stiff one too,” he agreed, tone dry. “...Think you can stand?”

Angel snorted. “They’re withdrawals, Niss—I didn’t break my legs.” He rolled his eyes, but at least he was talking. He rose to his feet, took one step towards the door, and then promptly pitched forward, slamming his head into the floor.

“So, yeah,” he said. “That’s been about my day.”

The alley was dark, isolated. He kept his voice pretty quiet, so no one overheard him. There was something things you couldn’t trust anyone with and this was one of them.

”...Nissy, I am not...” A pause. “...I would _never_ form any sort of relationship with your fiancée, Arackniss—at least, not like that!”

”What? No, I know that.” He looked towards the mouth of the alley again—no one in sight. He was still careful with his words. He didn’t want this conversation getting to anyone, and he was only calling like this because of a singular moment of weakness, and... well, eh was already dodging the family. “It was just... a lie. To, uh, test the waters.”

”...If you _really_ don’t want to tell your brother—“

”No!” He interrupted. He changed his mind a lot on this, but he let him talk him into this. “I do! I just... baby steps, you know? I’ll tell him the truth later, gimme some credit—y’know how this is for me.”

A sigh. “I do. I know it’s difficult—I’m proud of you.”

He scoffed—it didn’t cover up the affection creeping into his tone. “Thanks—I’ll have to call you later, alright? I better check in with my Pops—I think the family’s gettin’ suspicious.”

”Of course, Niss.” Was it normal to love someone’s voice so much? He could spend hours listening to it. “Will you call me back when you find the opportunity?”

”Yes.” He’d find a time. “Later, alright?”

When Angel woke up, his head was pounding, his throat was dry, and Cherri was propped in a chair by his bed, very much unconscious. Her hair was messy, and she was holding her phone, the screen still glowing—so she must not have been out for long. Honestly, he was pretty sure he would have shut his eyes and went back to sleep, but he heard movement in the corner.

He glanced over—Niffty was muttering in Japanese beneath her breath, brow furrowed as she wiped down something and then she looked up once she realized she was being watched. “Oh! Angel! You’re finally up!”

He tried to say something but instead he just groaned. “I tried to get all that blood off of you—you hit your head really hard, something cut into her hairline and forehead, right over your eye, it bled like _wow._ When Vaggie came in, she thought you were dead again! Oh, I think I missed some, it dried in your hair.” She took a step closer—Angel ended up batting her hands away.

His head was spinning. “What the fuck happened?”

Niffty shrugged. “There was shouting—Vaggie and Charlie went in to check on you and Arackniss, and they found you sprawled out on the floor, bleeding from a really nasty cut on your head. You really...” She trailed off. “...You’ve been asleep for a while.”

”Shit,” he said.

”...I’m gonna go get Charlie!” She exclaimed. “She was really worried about you, she’ll be glad that you’re awake.” She rushed off, out of the room, her retreating footsteps drawing Cherri out of her sleep.

She sat up, rubbed her eye. “Angie...?”

”How long was I out?” He asked.

”About three days,” she sighed. “We were worried about you—what the fuck did that asshole do to you?” She rose up to look him over—his head throbbed.

”That long?” He paused. “....Wait, what?”

”Charlie and Vaggie heard shouting,” she said. “And when they found you, you were on the floor bleeding, and we assumed Arackniss did something.”

”What? No.” Shit. Shit. _Shit._ “Arackniss didn’t do anything, I had a seizure, I think, fell.”

Her shoulders slumped with relief. “Oh. Are you... sure?”

”Pretty fuckin’ sure.” He sank back into the bed. “Fuck, what did ya guys _do_?”

At that moment, both Vaggie and Charlie came into the room. “Holy shit,” Vaggie said. “We thought you were dead. Are you okay?”

”I _am_ dead,” he said, but Vaggie was already stepping forward.

”God, what did he do to you?” Vaggie asked, pressed against the cut on his head—and pulled her hand back when it only made him wince, before grabbing a square of gauze nearby and dabbing at some of the blood. “We heard shouting—and you mentioned in a group therapy that you never got along with your brother.” That’s right—he did. In the same session, Niffty had talked a bit more about her husband and their relationship, Husk had mentioned a few things about the casino his family used to run, Alastor had spoken about his experience during the roaring twenties, and Vaggie had briefly, briefly alluded to having an abusive relationship when she was alive before changing the subject. Charlie had been so happy that they were making progress.

...He had not said very nice things about his family. “Angel,” Vaggie said. “Did he hit you?”

”No,” he responded. “No—we were...” _Fuck._ “Ugh, we were talkin’ and I think I had another seizure—“ ...What had happened while he was out? “What the fuck did you do to Arackniss?”

Charlie laced her fingers together. “Well, we thought he hit you, so we kicked him out. We... thought he hurt you.” Angel groaned. “What happened?”

”Just a seizure,” he said. “Must have hit my head—So, I was out for _three days?_ ”

”Yeah,” Charlie said. “We were really worried about you! The lobby’s _never_ been this quiet.”

At least he’d been clean for five days now.

His head hurt worse than it did when he got a bullet put through it.

He picked his phone up from where it rested—he had missed a call from Arackniss, and instead of leaving a voicemail he had left a short, to the point text message telling him to get in contact when he could, that left him wondering if he was worried or concerned, and a handful of text messages from Valentino.

...He had almost forgotten about Valentino.

He felt sick, but he needed to know what he’d been texting him—and respond before he got _too_ angry.

_You better not be gaining too much weight, Angel Cakes—I want you nice and thin for the camera when you’re back at the studio._

_Angel, I know you’re reading this. Be a good boy and respond. You know what I wanna hear. ❤️ ❤️_

_Babycakes, you shouldn’t be ignoring me. Why are you being such a brat, sugar?_

_Easy slut.💕_

_Answer me._

_You know what happens to my whores when they ignore me, don’t you, Angie?_

He did—all it took was for Valentino to be in a bad mood, and then even the smallest slight set him _off_. He had once seen Val beat a chick until her ribs poked out of her skin, and then had went ahead and put the guy she had been filming with in a snuff film.

He had yet to piss Valentino off enough for him to put Angel in a snuff film—and he’d prefer to keep it that way, but what did he tell him?

 _I’m sorry, Val—I haven’t been on my phone, I only read these just now,_ he typed out—but he couldn’t hit send. Was it too much to hope he’d get lucky and never have to deal with Valentino again?

Uneasy, he set his phone down. His head was still pounding, he wanted to go back to sleep, Fat Nuggets and Peaches were _demanding_ his attention, and the world _sucked_ right now.

It took a bit of convincing, but Vaggie and Charlie did let him leave the hotel to go to the drug store to get painkillers for her headache.

 _Mild_ painkillers, Vaggie told him. She didn’t want him coming back high. He was doing good so far. Did he need someone to come with him?

He had said no. Charlie had said yes, but she was working on the redemption thing with Cherri (who was having an easier time ditching the painkillers she was on but had been the slightest bit too eager to offer to come with him). Vaggie had work to do, Husk was watching his pigs, no one had any idea where Alastor had ran off to.

And now he was walking to the drug store with Niffty.

”Oh my gosh, it’s been a while since I’ve gone outside,” she said, words coming out quickly, like they usually did. Even with her short little legs, she caught up easily with him. “It looks different, but maybe I just haven’t been outside very much, or maybe I’ve never been in this part of the city, I don’t know—what’s a normal amount of time to stay indoors?”

”Not as long as ya have, baby,” he said.

”Oh.” Even then, she still looked around eagerly—she had stopped multiple times to stare at something and then would rush to catch back up with him when he didn’t stop. “It’s a pretty big city, though.”

Yeah, but apparently, not big enough. This ring of Hell wasn’t big enough for all the sinners trapped inside it. “I guess,” he said.

He still had a bandage over the stiches, jutting into his forehead and hairline that Vaggie had slapped on (gently) after cleaning some of the blood on him—it did not make him look pretty.

Considering all of Hell was... _Hell,_ drug stores were relatively normal, except for the excessive amounts of drugs you could buy, but considering they used to give heroin to children to help with their coughs, Angel didn’t think it was that strange. Niffty climbed up a shelf to reach some basic, mild, off brand painkillers and looked them over, just to make sure that they were not actually cocaine.

They were, unfortunately, not cocaine, just pills.

”I really hope the bar doesn’t fall apart while I’m not there,” Niffty said as they left. “Husk doesn’t ever really clean up after himself—at least, not well, and I really don’t want it to be a mess, like—what if a potential patron comes in, but thinks the lobby’s such a mess that they leave? And then I just cost Alastor and Charlie a patron, because I didn’t do my job, and they’ve both been so nice to me, and then they’ll probably fire me.”

...That would literally never happen.

The streets were crowded. A handful of demons shoulder checked him, and he assumed Niffty would be faring worse than him (being four feet tall if you were generous, in a city where the average height was a full yard over that) but she moved so quickly, she avoiding getting stepped on or tripped over—and the one time she didn’t move fast enough, she had gotten up quickly, yanked the demon who had ran into her to their feet and rushed back over to him. It was a good thing he was tall, he stood out, Niffty found him easily. He did not want to go back to the hotel and have to tell Alastor that he lost Niffty in a crowd.

“Your phone’s vibrating like crazy,” Niffty pointed out, when the eighth demon of the day catcalled him and he flipped him off without skipping a beat. “Were you expecting a phone call?”

”Probably nothin’,” he said. “I’ll get to it in a minute, now’s not really a good place for a phone call.” If you stopped in a crowd like this, the other demons would likely trample you.

A limo pulled up to the curb—for a moment, every demon in the proximity seemed to freeze, before clearing out with renewed vigor. “ _Ohh, shit, fuck.”_ Angel recognized that limo.

He grabbed onto Niffty’s hand and tugged her behind him—it was literally never a good thing when Valentino saw him on the street, and less of a good thing when he was with someone, _anyone,_ and he could not get out of the street fast enough. Val might just follow him.

The window rolled down, a tendril of red-pink smoke slipped out. “There you are, Angel Cakes,” Valentino purred—it sounded vaguely like a threat, but maybe he was just paranoid.

”Val.” His voice cracked—he couldn’t choke out anything other than that.

Even though he thought he had made it obvious he didn’t want Valentino to see Niffty, Niffty peered behind his back up at Valentino and his gaze drifted to her. “Who’s your friend?” He asked.

”Uh... Um...” He glanced down at her tiny head.

”I’m Niffty,” she chirped—oh, god. He forgot she was kind of stupid. You didn’t go attracting Overlord’s attention like that!

”She’s the housekeeper,” he said. “At the hotel. She was just walkin’ with me to the drug store.” He gestured behind him, to the drug store in that direction they had come from.

”I see.” His gaze scraped over him again. “Why don’t the two of you hop in? I’ll give you a ride back to that hotel you’re stayin’ at, Angie, and you can explain to me why you haven’t been responding to my texts.” He did not want to be in a small, enclosed space with Valentino—and he definitely didn’t want to be in there with Niffty, it’d scar her for the rest of her afterlife! And Valentino always got... weird with him when there was someone he knew nearby—possessive, mostly, but also handsy...

He hated it when Val touched him—but his disgust always multiplied when someone he knew was watching, which probably made it that much more enjoyable for his pimp.

...Except, Valentino wasn’t his pimp anymore. He didn’t need to do anything, Val couldn’t force him to do anything...

He could, however, manhandle, rape and beat Angel for not doing what he wanted, and he’d prefer that to not happen in front of Niffty.

Niffty glanced up at him. “Actually, the two of us planned on walking—I think we’re good, thanks for the offer though, it was really nice!”

He had seen Valentino size people up like this before—probably wondering if he could ensnare another soul in a contract to make him more money. He had never seen it directed to someone he knew. “Nifty, was it?”

”Niffty,” she said. “Two f’s.”

”You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?” Another tendril of smoke from his stupid cigar—if Angel wasn’t scared and uncomfortable, he’d probably want to shove the thing through Valentino’s eye socket. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing playin’ maid at a rundown hotel?”

Niffty’s smile still looked polite, friendly—Angel got the feeling that maybe it was a reason she got along well with Alastor, because she was basically always smiling. “I like cleaning,” she said simply. “It’s a job, Alastor—he co-runs the hotel, with Charlie Magne, the princess of Hell, you’ve heard about the radio demon, right?—owns my soul and all, he called in on a favor I owed him—since he, you know, owns my soul.”

Valentino paused—Niffty was still talking. “I honestly _love_ my job—I think the hotel’s lovely, and I like to keep it in tip top shape, and my superiors are so nice to me—we should probably head back, Angel. So I can do my job. For Alastor. Who owns my soul.”

...Maybe he needed to give Niffty a bit more credit. He didn’t think Valentino would be willing to mess with Alastor. “That’s a shame,” he said—but his focus just turned back onto Angel.

 _Let’s get this over with._ He sighed and turned to Niffty. “Go ahead and run along, Niffty—I’ll catch up, promise.”

Her gaze turned wary. “...Are you sure?” She asked. She glanced back at Valentino, still sitting in the limo and eying him like a piece of meat. “I mean, if you’re sure...”

”It’s fine,” he said, even though literally nothing about this was even the littlest bit fine. “Promise.”

”...If you’re sure,” she said, and walked away—she turned a corner (which was not the way to the hotel) and he turned back to Valentino, noting in the back of his mind that he definitely _felt_ like he was being watched.

“So you couldn’t get to your phone, but you could go outside with your friend there?” He should have responded. Moment he could to clear it up. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about things getting physical, not on the phone. “You know better than to ignore me, Angel Cakes.”

”I-I wasn’t ignorin’ ya, Val, honest.” He felt sick—could he go into another seizure right about now? It’d be better than dealing with this, except—shit. Valentino didn’t know he was getting clean. “A... thing sorta happened, and...”

”What happened, baby?” He went silent—Val never took him getting clean well, and he didn’t want to be in debt to him anymore. “So quiet, sweetheart—why don’t you come in here a sec’, let’s chat.”

That was the last thing he wanted. The absolute last thing he wanted, but Val wanted it, so it didn’t fucking matter.

He took a seat as close to the door as possible. Valentino clicked his tongue in faux disappointment. “Are we feelin’ shy today, baby cakes? Come closer—I want a good look at you.”

He inched forward—Valentino grabbed a pair of his arms and pulled him closer than he ever wanted to be, and then even closer than that, until he was seated on his lap where his hands could reach wherever he wanted. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hoped Niffty wasn’t still watching or anything.

”What’s this?” A finger traced over the bandage, running over the stitching right beneath it, and he winced.

”I um... hit my head the other day,” he said. “It knocked me out for awhile, it’s why I never texted ya back.”

Valentino hummed—a second hand was on his lower back, fingers dipping right beneath the waistband of his usual, favorite pair of short shorts. “Is that a fact?”

He forced himself to nod.

”A week without being under a contract, and it’s like you’ve forgotten everything, baby.” He tore the bandage off and he flinched, but otherwise forced himself to hold still—not that it mattered, since Val would _hold him still_ if he needed to, but it almost gave him what felt like control in this situation. “You don’t _lie_ to me, Angel Cakes. You know better than that, baby.”

“But I—“ His voice cracked. “I’m not lyin’, that’s what happened.”

”Stop it, Angel. You know better, don’t you?” He ran his finger over it again. “Answer me.”

He nodded again. “That’s not gonna work, sugar. Use your words, like a good boy.”

”I-I d—“ The moment he opened his mouth, Valentino tore the stitches out. He cried out in pain—Val tightened his grip on him. “Ow, _fuck...”_

”This looks recent,” he said, rubbed a finger against the now freely bleeding cut. “How’d you get something like this, baby?”

He did not want to talk about it with Valentino. “I just... fell.”

”You really expect me to believe that, darlin’?” A hand moved to cup his thigh. He felt sick, _God._ “Tell me the truth, Angel Cakes, or you’re gonna be keeping me company for a bit longer than a sec’.”

He hated how easily Valentino could make him submit. “I had a seizure,” he said. “Hit my head on my pig’s food bowl—it’s metal, apparently real sharp.” Why did he need to know all this. He wasn’t lying! “I was out for a few days.”

”Good boy.” The entire time, he had not lost his stupid cigar. He crushed it into a nearby ashtray, freeing up the hand he had been using. “Was that so hard, Angel Cakes?”

No. The word was right there on his tongue—but he wasn’t going to say that. His stomach clenched. He shook his head.

”Still so quiet,” he murmured. That hand—the one that had been holding his cigar—moved to cup his groin. “Why you bein’ so shy, baby? It’s not like you...” Angel squirmed, but Valentino was still holding him on his lap. Blood dripped down his face. “I haven’t seen you since you left the studio, Angel—least you could do is speak to me, baby.” He hooked two fingers beneath his choker and tugged him closer. “You think your friend’s still watching?”

He tried to pull back, but that wasn’t happening. “I-I’m sorry, Mista Valentino, really—“

“Shh...” That hand between his legs moved to unbutton his shorts and his heart dropped so fast and far, he thought it was in his feet. “Calm down, baby, I’ve barely laid a finger on you, yet.” A drop of blood slid down his chin—god, he was bleeding a lot. Was he supposed to bleed this much? “Look so pretty for me,” he said, pulling him closer another inch, licking some of the blood on his cheek. “Little bitch—why didn’t you text me when you were up? You know better, Angel Cakes.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. “Who’s that?” Valentino asked, still holding his choker.

”Probably no one,” he said—even then, he felt like Valentino was going to hit him for even thinking of saying _no_ in any context.

One of his hands reached into his pocket—his protest was a whimper, Valentino’s fingers still digging into his skin. “Daddy,” he said. “Please, it’s nothing, Daddy.”

A hand cupped him through his underwear—worse yet, he had gone for the slutty, lacy panties when he had gotten dressed earlier today, so he could feel sexy with those ugly ass stitches Niffty had said they still couldn’t remove. “It doesn’t look like nothing, Angel Cakes—who’s Arackniss?”

”No one, Daddy,” he lied—he fully expected it when Valentino hit him. “I’m sorry, Daddy, please?”

“ _Angel.”_

”Just...He’s just my brother.” This was humiliating. He hoped Niffty got bored and wandered back to the hotel, he was gonna be a wreck when Valentino was done. And his head still hurt. “Daddy, please—“

Valentino yanked the shorts and panties down to his ankles and stroked him gently, almost casually, like he did this all the time ( _because he did_ ). “Why’s he want you to call him so bad, Angel?”

”He...” He was fighting to keep his voice even, not that it mattered because Valentino clearly didn’t want him to keep his voice even. “He was th-there. When I had my seizure.” He decided to leave it at that.

”Poor baby,” he murmured, running a hand down his bare ass. He pinched—Angel tried not to jump. “Does he know his brother’s a whore?”

”Yes,” he said. ...He was coming around to... accepting it. Maybe.

Valentino grinned—Angel was still bleeding. “Why don’t you call him, baby? He seems worried.”

He felt sick. “N-Now?”

”Now.” He hadn’t stopped touching him for even a minute. Blood dripped off of the cut on his head and onto his bare thighs. “Ignoring people’s _rude,_ Angel Cakes—I think I need to teach you a lesson.” He pushed his phone back into his hand. “Call him.”

If there was ever a point in his afterlife he wanted to say no to Val, it was now. “Val, _pl-_ _please...”_

He heard the blow more than he felt it. “Now, Angel.”

There was no point in arguing. He could sit there and plead with Valentino for as long as he wanted, it was only holding off the inevitable.

 _Humiliating_ didn’t begin to describe it. Neither did _sickening,_ or _gross._ He wished Arackniss would just let it go to voicemail, spare him the suffering, but fate wasn’t so kind.

 _”Angel?”_ His voice came from the speaker. “ _Shit, are you okay?_ Grazie a Dio, cazzo, _I was worried sick.”_

That was actually kind of sweet. “I’m fine, Niss. Just a cut.” Val didn’t stop touching him for a minute—obviously, that was a part of his enjoyment. “Sorry that happened, didn’t mean to scare ya.”

” _I dunno what those broads told you, but I didn’t lay a finger on you—not sure if you remember, we were goin’ down to the bar to talk ‘bout shit?_ ”

“I remember,” he said.

There was a click on the line, a noise like footsteps. “—t _ried to see if you were okay, but Vaggie kicked me out, thought I hurt you.”_

Valentino pressed down on that cut again, drawing a hissed breath. _“Angel? Somethin’ wrong?”_

”Just a headache,” he lied. “That’s all.” Valentino pinched his ass again, chuckled lowly.

 _“Are you at the hotel right now?”_ Arackniss asked. _“Can I... see you, there’s... somethin’ I wanna talk to you about.”_

”Uh...” Valentino stroked harder. He grit his teeth so he didn’t make a noise—he felt like getting molested over the phone while talking to his brother would damage their already fragile relationship. “I’m not at the hotel right now,” he said, balled his hands into fists, on his thighs. “I was, uh... pickin’ up some painkillers with Niffty at the drug store.”

 _”Was?_ Arackniss asked. _“Will you be there soon or...?”_

He hesitated. “Maybe.” It depended on Valentino’s mood, really.

 _“Right. ...Niffty, that housekeeper chick? The two of you like...”_ He waited for Arackniss to stumble over his words and bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. “... _Did you, uh... turn back...?”_

He grit his teeth. “Can ya find another time to be a fuckin’ homophobe, Niss?” He hissed. “Ya know, studies show most homophobes are actually just fuckin’ queers, in the closet.”

“ _I’m not a fuckin’ queer, Tony!_ ” Arackniss protested. _“Who the fuck did those studies?”_

”Fuck You-niversity,” he responded. Valentino—apparently, just for the hell of it— slapped his thigh, hard enough to make him cry out.

”... _Angel? You okay?”_

If the ground could swallow him up, he’d be okay with that. “’m fine, Niss. Uh...” He should have known, any noise he made would just spur Valentino on—he stroked him faster, looking dismissive, unconcerned.

” _Where are you right now?”_ He asked.

“...Just left the drug store,” he said. “Uh, tryin’ to find Niffty, she’s... around here. Somewhere.” Valentino pulled his jacket open—a button popped off.

He bit his tongue again, Valentino grabbed at his chest. “You shouldn’t lie, Angel Cakes,” he said, softly, a bit too far from the receiver to be picked up, so at least Arackniss didn’t hear him. “You should know better, baby.”

” _The drug store... The one three blocks away from the hotel?”_

”That’s the one,” he said.

”... _The one with the limo at the corner?”_

He froze. Val was still touching him. “Keep fuckin’ walkin’,” he said before he ended the call.

He wanted to drop double dead. “Angel Cakes,” Valentino cooed—still not stopping. “I don’t remember saying you could stop.”

”I’m sorry, Daddy,” he said, voice softer than it usually was, but he wanted to curl up in the fetal position and die again, he could care less about Val’s anger.

”You’re lucky I don’t make you call him again,” he said.

”I’m sorry, Mista Valentino.” He didn’t stop his ministrations. “Val, please—“

He backhanded him again—warmth bloomed on the side of his face, stinging and burning. “If I let you go,” he purred. “Are you gonna be a good boy?”

He blinked and nodded—Val hit him again. “Good boys use their words, Angel Cakes.” Again. “Are you gonna be a good boy, baby?”

”Yes, Daddy,” he said.

This time, it was harder. His vision blurred with tears, he cried out, Val was still stroking him. “Good boys don’t _lie,_ Angel.” He whined. Two hands moved his legs, until his clothes were hanging off of one ankle and he was facing Valentino, straddling his thigh. “Why are you being such a handful today, baby cakes?”

“I-I’m sorry, Daddy—I’ll be good, I promise, just please—“ Those hands on his thighs tightened. “—Come on, please, Val.”

”How long have you been clean.” Of course—Of course that was how this was going to end. “Lie to me again, and I’ll drag your scrawny ass back to the studio, make you do snuff films for the next three weeks for being so _bad_...” And he was still touching him—he felt sick. He knew he wasn’t going to stop until he came.

”Not even a week,” he said. “...Daddy, please, I wanna stay clean. Please, Daddy.”

”What did I _just_ say, Angel?” He asked—the look in his eyes was equal parts amusement and irritation. “Do you like snuff films? Is that it? You want to be tied up, gang raped and cut open in front of the camera? I can make that happen for you, sugar, just tell me, baby.”

Panic seized his chest. “N-No—“

That was his fault. That was entirely his fault, he was stupid.

The next blow wasn’t the side of his face, he felt it hit right over that stupid fucking cut on his head, hard enough to knock him off of Valentino’s lap—bleeding, hurting, disgustingly hard while Valentino leered over him. And it was his own damn fault, because he should have known better than to say no to Valentino.

“I-I wasn’t lyin’, Daddy,” he insisted. “It-It’s only been about-about five days or so, really—“

”That’s not what I’m talkin’ about, Angel.” He lit another cigar, took a slow, long drag while he drank in the confusion on his face.

”...I don’t get it, Daddy, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Baby cakes...” He tapped a piece of ash off of his cigar, eyes focused on him. “We both know you don’t want to get clean.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “But I do. I really, really do, Daddy, please...”

Valentino shook his head. “I thought I told you not to lie to me, darlin’. We both know you don’t.” He hooked his two fingers back into his choker to pull him forward. “You spend the last, what, seventy one years, high out of your sweet little mind and decide you want to turn it all around now—seventy one years, Angel Cakes, and that’s only counting your afterlife, how long were you hooked on dust in life?”

He didn’t want to answer. “Come on, baby—you need to start behavin’.” His stomach churned—he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since before he knocked himself out, which might have been a good thing. He was sure, if there was something actually in his stomach, he’d be fighting to keep it down. “What do we say when we want something, Angel Cakes?”

And his mouth was so dry. It felt like he couldn’t move his tongue, and yet he still somehow found a way to speak anyway. “Please?”

Valentino’s patience only lasted as long as his amusement. “Please _what,_ Angel?”

He squirmed, Valentino’s fingers hard against the skin of his throat, tugging on his choker. “Please, Daddy?”

”Very good, baby.” He moved a strand of hair out of his face—and he was still bleeding. In general, lots of things were wrong and today was not his day. “I got something for you—for being a good boy.” Never a good sign—Valentino’s rewards always had a price, and he was never in a generous mood. “Don’t look at me like that, baby—you know I take good care of my favorite whores, Angel.”

He pulled open a compartment to his right, next to his seat, and fished out a syringe.

”I—“ His voice cracked, he felt sick. “I can’t be your whore anymore, the princess would have my head.” He tried to subtly move away. “I can’t—“

”She’s not here, is she, baby?” He tugged again on his choker, making him get up and pulling him closer. “It’s okay, Angie—you’ll make this up to me, won’t you?” He squeezed his eyes shut when Valentino touched him again, waited for the gentleness to be replaced, for all this to turn painful in a moment. “You want to make this up to me, don’t you, Angel Cakes?”

No. No, he didn’t. What he did want to do was take that syringe out of Valentino’s hand and jam it into his throat. ”Yes, Mista Valentino.”

He found Niffty relatively easily, the only thing on these streets that moved or spoke, peering around the corner at the limo, in the middle of a conversation with a phone. “I-I don’t know, I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I just—I didn’t think I was supposed to leave him, he said he’d catch up, but...” She bit her bottom lip and then finally noticed him. “Oh! Hi, Arackniss!” She turned back to the phone. “Yeah, he’s here, I think he’s been standing there a minute. ...No? I don’t know, it hasn’t moved, but it feels wrong to just leave him. ...You are? ...Okay, I’ll wait here.” With a beat, she hung up and looked at him.

He jerked a thumb towards the direction he came from—he had kept walking, like his brother requested, but only because he had noticed Niffty and figured he could get some answers from her. “My brother’s in there?”

She sighed and nodded. “I was supposed to go with him to the drug store, to make sure he stayed out of trouble, but then that limo pulled to a stop by us.”

Everyone recognized Valentino’s limo—at least, Arackniss assumed everyone did. Niffty was still talking. “That Valentino guy started talking—I guess Angel hasn’t been texting him, he’s really tall? He offered to give us a ride, but I know Angel doesn’t like him, and I like walking—he told me I was pretty, but it felt weird. Honestly, he kind of seems like a dick—but Angel went ahead and got in with him anyway.”

He crossed a pair of his arms and looked back at the limo. “Well... He can’t force my brother to do anything he doesn’t wanna do,” he said, but even as he said it, he wasn’t sure. “...Do you know if he’s been harassin’ Angel a lot recently?”

Niffty shook her head. “He hasn’t _mentioned_ it. But I really hope he’s okay—maybe they’re just... discussing his last paycheck?” She looked up at him and sighed. “I don’t know, I just hope he’s okay.”

He sighed and nodded—that phone call had just worried him. He didn’t want to be worried, really, but now all he could think about was how anything could be happening behind those tinted windows and how little he wanted to know and how much he cared. He fished out a pack of cigarettes and flipped the lid open. “Want one?” He offered.

“No thank you, I don’t smoke.” Somewhere distant, a car horn blared, but other than that, it was mostly silent over here.

He lit his cigarette—it was off putting. Hell was never quiet—too crowded to be anything other than noisy, all hours of the day, with it’s nightclubs and traffic and massive population. Silence was artificial, a forced thing, a by-product of something else strange going on somewhere. He would have preferred having Niffty talk his ears (you know, the ones he didn’t really have) off to sitting in the quiet.

God. He spent most of his afterlife, looking for a little bit of peace and quiet in the chaos, and when he finally got it, he was too freaked out and concerned to enjoy it. Fucking Hell. “So, uh... You guys went to the drug store?”

“Oh, yeah! We were picking up painkillers—Charlie and Vaggie were worried that if he went alone, he’d get into trouble, so they were hoping, if someone went with him, they’d keep him from getting into a turf war or buying drugs or something.”

If Angel really wanted to get in a turf war, he doubted a four foot tall chick in a poodle skirt could stop him, but he didn’t question it. “And, uh, how’s he been? With his head?”

”He hasn’t been up for long,” Niffty told him. “But I think he was okay—has a headache, and some stitches that he thinks are ugly.”

Stitches were ugly. He nodded and took a drag off his cigarette. Niffty was still looking him over. “I hope I’m not wrong, but your voice sounds really familiar—did you happen to live anywhere near Brooklyn, in the fifties?”

He frowned. “...Yeah. I did.”

She frowned, thinking deeply. “Weren’t you... Weren’t you that man on the elevator?” She asked. “Oh! And we walked to the cemetery together—nineteen fifty, late March!”

No fucking way. “Shit, that was you?”

”Yeah,” she said. He had been visiting Miele’s grave, which had been right next to ~~Anthony’s~~ Angel’s, because his family had known that was what she wanted. It was hard to say no to Miele, harder to say no to her memory. “Did you ever find your siblings down here?”

He blinked. “...Yeah, found my brother. Sister ain’t down here, though.”

”...Oh, right,” she said. “Angel.” She rocked on her heels idly.

”You find your parents?” He asked.

”Only my mother—she’s... gone, though.”

”Oh.”

”Yeah.”

They waited a second. “Your husband seemed kinda...” He trailed off. _Dickish_ came to mind.

”Ha, yeah, he...” She rubbed the back of her neck. “He got like that sometimes—we had been fighting, and he didn’t really like me talking to any other man, even though I didn’t even know your name.” Yeah. They hadn’t even known each other’s names. “He flipped his lid—he didn’t let me out for _months,_ I think he made me stay inside for... two years? ...I don’t think I ever left the house.”

”...You died in fifty two?” He asked.

”Yeah.”

”I... also died in fifty two,” he said.

”Oh, wow, really? I died late January—got in a... fight with my husband and something just... _broke_.”

”I died with my family in a house fire,” he said. “Also in late January.”

She froze. “...House fire?” She questioned, voice soft.

”Yeah,” he said. “Parents think it was one o’ my cigarettes. I think my Ma left the oven on. Took out like, three whole blocks or something, killed _dozens_ o’ people.

Niffty was staring at him, singular eye wide in horror. “I burned my house down,” she said. “...With my husband and I still inside.”

There was a tense silence. Niffty was still staring at him. They continued to stare at each other. Arackniss decided he was going to double down on his efforts to convince his Ma it was the oven. He hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching until someone asked, “Am I interrupting something?”

He looked at Vaggie—she looked the same as ever, looking back at him and Niffty, scowling like she usually was. “Not really,” he said. He took another drag off his cigarette and gestured back to the corner where the limo was. “Angel’s in there, we don’t know what’s happening.”

Vaggie looked over at it—the car hadn’t moved an inch. “Why’d he get in there?” She asked, glancing at Niffty.

”I don’t know,” she said. “I was hoping we could just leave, but Angel told me to run ahead and said he could catch up—he looked really nervous, and when we first saw the limo, he put himself in front of me, it was really weird. I asked if he was sure, but... He just said he was.” They all turned back to the limo, which was still there and doing nothing. God, those windows were dark though—Arackniss couldn’t see anything inside the limo.

”Did anything else happen?” Vaggie asked. “Did he... I don’t know, threaten you or Angel?”

”I don’t think so,” Niffty said. “He asked what I was doing at the hotel, and it kind of weirded me out—I don’t know why, it just... kind of _did,_ but he backed off when I mentioned Alastor.”

Smart move, he supposed. He wouldn’t want to fuck with anyone who knew the Radio Demon either. “That’s good, at least,” Vaggie said. “One good thing...”

He had been on a break.

Not a permanent one! Angel had completely meant to jump into sex work when he felt like it, but ever since he had left the studio, he hadn’t had _any_ sex. He had jacked off like, once, and had been considering trying to find a fling at a nightclub or something, wondering if he’d ever really be up for it.

He had been clean.

And he had forgotten how much Valentino liked to fuck him sometimes, when he was high.

The needle had entered his skin easily. Valentino always knew how to get him just high enough to make him somewhat complacent, but never high enough to forget where he was, what was happening, he was always painfully aware, and on top of being painfully aware right now, he was painfully _horny._

He didn’t want to be—he hated the idea of enjoying this, of getting _off_ on this. He didn’t want this, he hadn’t wanted Valentino to touch him, he hadn’t wanted his drugs, and he would have loved it if the Overlord could keep it in his pants, so he tried to block out, somehow, Valentino’s fingers digging into his hips, the blood still trickling down his face, and tried to focus on that quickly retreating high.

But the highs never lasted long. Never long enough.

He was completely back down when Valentino was done with him, and he was a bloody, bruised heap on the floor of the limo, his shorts still on one of his ankles.

...At least Valentino had kept his boots on.

He groaned. Valentino tutted. “Angel, baby...You still conscious?” He nudged one of his hands, he groaned again. “Aw—come on, baby cakes, you wanted that. Came so hard and good for me... Pretty little baby. What do you say when someone gives you what you want, Angel Cakes?”

He didn’t want to move. He was so fucking _tired._ He nudged another hand, rougher this time. “ _Angel,_ baby, don’t be fuckin’ rude.”

”Thank you, Mista Valentino.”

“That’s much better, sugar.” He had another cigar. Fucking dick.

He pulled his clothes back on quickly. Valentino chuckled, watching him—shame bubbled in his stomach. “What’s the rush, sweetheart? You have somewhere you need to be?”

”I don’t.” God, he still had yet to take those painkillers. His head hurt like a son of a bitch.

”Good boy.” He grabbed his hair, pulling him forward and clearly not caring about how his scalp ached when he did that. “You want another dose, baby?”

He did ~~n’t~~. “Yes, Daddy.”

He pulled him onto his lap again, making him straddle the same thigh before petting his hair gently. “Much better,” he murmured, grabbing another syringe, tying a cord Angel hadn’t noticed around his arm. “Let’s do it right this time,” he said, gently, like he was trying to avoid scaring him away. “Take good care of those pretty veins in your pretty body.”

He couldn’t really stop Val, even if he wanted to—the worst part about this was he didn’t want to. It wasn’t worth it, not when it’d feel so good. It was a different sort of high, than PCP, but it was still a high, and apparently, that was all he cared about.

Valentino took an alcohol wipe down his upper arm twice, all in the same direction—it was cool, damp. Angel really, really, _really_ hoped Niffty wasn’t going to be there when he finally got out of the limo. It felt like a few decades had passed him by, sitting on Valentino’s lap alone.

The needle hurt when it entered his arm, but he bit his tongue. Val always liked it when he cried out—he didn’t want to give him what he wanted, just this once.

He pulled the plunger back—a little bit of his pink blood went into the syringe and Valentino untied the tourniquet on his arm before he pushed down, and any thoughts about how much those needles hurt, or about Niffty, or his phone call with Arackniss vanished, leaving just the pleasant rush of whatever the fuck this was into his vein.

”Oh, is that good, sweetness?” He forced himself to nod. “Good boy. ...Never really took you for a heroin addict, Angel.” He pulled the needle out of his arm, rubbed the alcohol wipe over his arm again. “What do you say?”

”...Thank ya, Mista Valentino.”

He stroked his cheek once. “That’s it, Angel Cakes—now, unless you’re gonna sign another contract with me, get the fuck out.”

He wasn’t going to. He had that going for him—he wasn’t under contract. He was still under Valentino’s thumb, but not his contract.

His legs shook like crazy when he stepped out—he knew he looked like a wreck. Wrinkled clothes, messy hair, still bleeding from that one cut Valentino ripped the stitches out of, and all those places Valentino hit him were starting to bruise, and he was really fucking high right now, and he couldn’t button his top again—

And he finally had a name for what it was he was on—heroin.

His no good, son of a bitch pimp had gotten him hooked on heroin. Fucking bastard.

Fucking dick.

Once he was out, the limo started moving.

“Angel?” A voice called from nearby—and it wasn’t Niffty.

He turned. His legs were still shaking. Not only was Niffty watching him, but so was his brother and _Vaggie._

Great.

He realized it was probably obvious what had just happened to him—he wasn’t sure if that was judgement in his brother’s eyes, or disgust, or concern. He told himself he didn’t care.

Holy fuck, he felt nauseous.

Niffty looked up at him, her one eye all big and sad. “I’m so sorry, Angel,” she said. “Are... Are you—“

”Don’t,” he said. “Don’t—just-just fuckin’ shut up. Fuck.”

Vaggie had her arms crossed, but she didn’t look angry—the bitch had the nerve to look _disappointed._ “Let’s get you back to the hotel,” she said.

”Yeah,” he said—and checked to make sure Valentino’s limo was actually gone.”Whatever.”

The next day, he tried to continue like everything was fine—Arackniss came over, again, and together, they ignored the elephant in the room and Niffty convinced the both of them somehow to help her in the kitchen, and Angel felt like that was something he needed, something that would help.

“It’s so nice of you to help me in the kitchen,” Niffty said, climbing onto the counters to get to a shelf in a cupboard she otherwise couldn’t reach. “Good thing too, because if we didn’t make this, I’d probably be making the same pork chops in cream of celery, and I get the feeling none of you really like that?”

Arackniss looked at her flatly. “...I get the feelin’ your mom was white,” he said.

”No,” Niffty said. “My father was though—my mom was Japanese, but she did cook like a white woman. You know, saying that makes it sound like you’re not white, but I always kind of assumed Italians were considered white, because Europe’s white?””

”Bit more complicated than that,” Arackniss said. “I mean, technically, no, but I think Italy is actually way more diverse than that, an’ back in the day, Italians were heavily persecuted by the KKK in America and were very much not considered white, so I mean, make o’ that what you will.”

”...You lost me,” Niffty said.

That wasn’t all that surprising. Angel just went back to dicing onion. “Niffty, can ya get me that bowl over there?”

”I’ll get it,” Arackniss said, grabbing it before she could and handing it over. Angel rolled his eyes. “What?”

”Nothin’,” he said, but he couldn’t hide his smirk. “Just think it’s... interestin’ that you’re so nice to Niffty.”

Niffty might have blushed.

”...I’m married,” Arackniss said. “Well, I mean, not really, and not ever, but like—that’s not gonna happen.” Niffty nodded and grabbed a can from the cupboard.

”It could,” Angel grinned. “I mean, didn’t your wife start fuckin’ a mechanic?” Arackniss rolled his eyes this time.

”Inventor,” he muttered, but Angel didn’t think much of it.”

”Just sayin’, couldn’t hurt to throw you back into the sea, plenty o’ fish and all.” He winked at Niffty who laughed nervously and just worked on opening the can. “And Niffty’s a hot fish.”

”The fuck are you even talkin’ ‘bout?” Arackniss asked. “Fuck, I’ve had like, three fuckin’ conversations with her.”

Angel clicked his tongue. “Gettin’ awfully defensive, huh, Niss?” His brother scoffed. “Don’t mind Niss, Niffty, he’s just shy.”

“ _Vaffanculo,_ ” Arackniss hissed.

” _F_ _anculo anche a te, fratello_ ,” he responded without skipping a beat. Niffty did not question their sudden use of Italian.

Charlie was lingering in the doorway of the kitchen, like she had been doing as of late, like she was worried he was gonna drop dead. “What are you guys doing?” She asked, gently.

”Makin’ dinner.” He said. “Pasta e Fagioli.”

”Is it good?” She asked.

”No,” Angel responded. “It tastes like shit. I suggested it ‘cause I hate you and want you and everyone in this hotel to suffer.” Niffty blinked up at him—maybe he should have gone heavier on the sarcasm on his tone, or lightened up on the hatred bit. “...I think so, haven’t had it in a while, but goddamn, do I remember how to make it.”

”Surprised,” Arackniss said. “You haven’t had it in seventy years?”

”More than that,” he said. “Last time I had it, it was a few hours before Pops disowned me.” He frowned—the last home cooked meal he had ever gotten.

Goddamn.

”Please tell me Ma’s fuckin’ soup wasn’t your last meal, Tony,” he said—this time, he didn’t even seem to notice the mistake in his name. Maybe it was intentional.

God, when ~~Ian~~ Arackniss got like this, he sounded like Pops. _You can’t be serious, Tony. Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Tony?,_ shock and horror shifting to _repulsion,_ and then he couldn’t even look at him anymore—

His dickbag of a father had somehow looked at him as his son longer than his mother had. The _moment_ his mother heard, she had laughed and refused to look at him again.

How had they reacted when he was in his coma? Had they felt any sort of remorse?

“Yeah, well, keep it up and your last meal’s gonna be a fuckin’ knuckle sandwich, ya short li’l jackass.” He put the knife down before he cut his fingers.

”Not in my kitchen,” Niffty said, tone almost stern but not loosing a hint of cheer. “You’re not Alastor—you can’t make dinner out of demons.”

“I’m not that fuckin’ short,” Arackniss said.

”Yeah, ya are, shortie. You’re short.”

Arackniss muttered something about him being a _fagioli_ —like it was second nature, Angel responded by punching him as hard as he fucking could in the jaw and Arackniss hit the deck.

Charlie gasped. “Angel!”

”He deserved it,” Angel said.

Charlie did not agree with him.

”I think,” Charlie said, later, at night when he was drinking and being miserable, long after Arackniss had left with an ice pack to hold to his jaw and he had helped Niffty clean some blood off of the floor (it wasn’t a _lot_ of blood, he was _fine_ ). “You might have anger issues.”

”Yeah?” He said. “And?”

”...That’s bad.”

He stabbed down at his ice with his straw. “Literally every man in my family has had anger issues, Charlie—it’d be weird if I fuckin’ didn’t.”

”...Angel, you’re talking about your family?”

”And?”

”...You were in the mafia.”

...Were. Right. He wasn’t really a part of the family anymore. Sure, he had something with Arackniss, but his parents still fucking hated him. _Were._ Past tense. “And? You’re family’s royalty in _Hell.”_

”Yes,” she said. “And that doesn’t mean we’re saints—obviously, but just because it was the norm for your family doesn’t mean it’s the norm overall—“ They were in Hell. Just about everyone seemed to have a mental illness, or was addicted to something or _something_ down here. “—And it really shouldn’t be.”

”You’re dating _Vaggie,”_ he said.

”I think,” she said again, voice still gentle as she laced her fingers together. “That you’re perfectly entitled to your emotions—I just don’t think the way you work through them is healthy for you, or... anyone.” He rolled his eyes, Charlie didn’t stop. “And Vaggie _is_ working on her temper—she’s gotten better. I think a lot of her anger’s justified, and she’s working on controlling her actions. I just worry that one of these days you’re going to do something... regrettable. When you’re mad.”

”Haven’t killed anyone yet,” he said.

”...No,” she said. “...permanently, no, not down here, as far as I know, at least.” They both stared at each other—not killing someone was somewhat a feat down in Hell. ...Or maybe he had killed someone? Death wasn’t permanent down here, so it was... fine. Probably. He thought a permanent death down here would be something you’d know for sure. “I’m only saying anything because I’m concerned.”

Yeah. Concerned about the hotel, he was sure. About the idea of redemption.

”I know you have a...” Her gaze glided over the mark on his head, from those stitches that were no longer there, those bruises his fur barely hid. He still smelled like blood and if he closed his eyes, he could still smell Valentino’s fucking cigars. “...lot going on right now.” No. He had nothing. “So you can take your time. I understand this is all... difficult. It’s okay if you’re not okay right now—“

”I’m fine,” he interrupted. “Really, Charlie—whatever the fuck ya want from me, just fuckin’ say it, instead of dancin’ ‘round the subject like this.”

It was harsh. Harsher than he meant it—but he had nothing anyway. Just nightmares, and anger, and bone deep loathing, and his soul. What did a soul matter anyway? What was so fucking valuable about them down here? “I think you need therapy, Angel,” she said. “You have... problems. And I want you to work through them. And I want to help you, you know—“

”Okay,” he said. “When the fuck do ya wanna start this shit?”

”...Okay, in all honesty,” Charlie said. “I wasn’t expecting you to agree so quickly—I just... thought it worth telling you, ahead of time.

He was tired. He needed to get to bed—he had _two_ pigs to cuddle while he shook in bed like a leaf and hated himself. “Alright, cool, thanks.” He got up—his head pounded. He had left his painkillers in Valentino’s limo, along with most of his dignity. Now his head hurt and whatever was left with his dignity was probably why he was hurting, because that was torn to shreds.

...He needed another shower.

He shut the door to his room behind him and leaned against it for a moment. Fat Nuggets and Peaches ran to greet him, and he had to admit, he had the _prettiest_ pigs. He loved them.

He slid his back down the wood of the door and sank to the ground. Peaches stole Nugget’s favorite spot on his lap, Nuggets’ tiny feet pressed too hard on a bruise.

...At least he had two really cute pigs.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie and Alastor were talking, which was never a good sign.

A few feet away from the bar, they stood—at first glance, it didn’t look like much, but Husk knew better. Alastor was always up to _something,_ and it was (usually) something he didn’t want to get involved in. But the fact that it was the two of them, and they were talking in hushed voices, and Charlie’s features were pinched with seriousness that didn’t look right on her, and they kept throwing glances towards him, behind the bar, drinking only his thirteenth bottle this morning—it all had him a little on edge.

He heard Charlie say, “You really think you can talk to him?”

Oh, great. This sounded great. “It’s just that... Al, you have a tendency to... aggravate people.”

” _My dear,”_ he laughed, softly—Husk already had the feeling that he was wearing _that_ expression, where his smile was too large, his mouth held too many teeth, but it looked too, too genuine. _“You and I both know that that’s intentional. ...I have no intention of... vexing our Husker any further than we aim to.”_

“That’s not my name,” he called over to them—not that it mattered. Alastor knew it wasn’t his name, he just usually didn’t care.

The two of them paused—Charlie ended up walking away and Alastor approached the bar—also never a good sign. _“Husker,”_ he started.

”The fuck you want now?” He asked.

Alastor’s sigh was laced with static. He adjusted his grip on his cane. _“I... understand that you are...”_ He shifted on his feet, looking him over while he searched for the right word. “ _...deeply troubled by things I’m sure you don’t want to get into with me, and I’m sure you have your reasons for your excessive drinking—but Charlie and I... We’re concerned.”_

”What’s there to be concerned about?” He asked. “It’s not like my liver can give out on me _again.”_

” _No,”_ Alastor said. Usually, he was all for show—broad, fake smiles and canned laughter, all a show. ...Something about his expression was disturbingly real looking. “ _But regardless of that, this—“_ A vague gesture towards the bottle in his hand, only earning a sharp glare in response. _“—is not healthy.”_

”You really fucking care about my _health_ , Alastor?” He took another swig—he put up with a lot of shit from Alastor. He did the man favors and worked at this stupid fucking bar in this stupid fucking hotel, all for him, but the least he could do was mind his own fucking business when it came to Husk and his drinking. “What, you want me to get sober, for this hotel thing?” Alastor nodded a yes. “The hotel thing you want to fail ‘cause you’re only here for your own entertainment, right?”

 _”Husker, I want to make it clear just how serious I am, so I’m going to briefly use your real name, to emphasize how serious this is.”_ He reached over and pulled the bottle straight out of his hands. _“There is nothing even remotely entertaining about this, Husk._

_”Yes—I enjoy suffering, I know I am infamously sadistic, and I truly do find other’s pain entertaining. But not this—there’s nothing amusing about your self-destructing, uncontrollable spiral into despair. Your drinking before was concerning—and it’s only gotten worse since coming to the hotel, and I...know that I had mostly to do with that. ...With that said, Husk—I really do believe intervention would be... beneficial to your health._

_”...You need help.”_

There was a brief bout of silence following his words. Husk stayed there for a moment. “...I don’t got that much of a problem.”

_”I’m going to have to disagree with you there.”_

”Whatever,” he said. “Growing up, my old man drank _twice_ as much as me and he was just fine.”

_”Ah, yes—his liver failed him after decades of excessive drinking, correct?”_

...Yeah. But Husk didn’t even have liver that could fail anymore—being dead and all. “You worry about the health of all the idiots that sell their soul to you, or just me?”

_”Well, our darling Niffty seems to be also heading for a breakdown, just not an immediate one. And I believe she’ll allow us to help her when she needs it—you, however... needed help a long time ago and never received it.”_

Psh, he needed help in the seventies. Fuck that—the _sixties._ ...Maybe the forties, maybe he needed help for a long time—but this was Hell. Help wasn’t a thing down here—

Help was contracts and deals with demons more powerful than you could ever hope to be—the worst part was, he couldn’t bring himself to hate Alastor, knowing there was far worse demons who could own his soul.

No, he couldn’t hate Alastor too much, but he could very much hate himself. And so what if his way of coping with the self-loathing was _unhealthy?_ It was _self-loathing_! It wasn’t supposed to be healthy!

”Al, I don’t ask for much,” he responded. “Just let me drink myself to double death in this shithole of a hotel.”

Alastor stood there for a moment longer. “ _Even if you refuse to listen to me,_ ” he said, voice gentle, like he was speaking to a child. _“You still have Charlie—the two of us...”_ He paused one long moment, and he had that look in his eye that said he was thinking _strategically_ , and that was also never a good thing—maybe he should start commenting on the things that were good, it’d be a lot less effort. “ _...We believe that it doesn’t look good for the hotel.”_ Of course—that was easier to understand than Alastor caring about his health. _“The point of the hotel is to discourage sin, Husker_ —“

“Still not my name,” he interjected, but Alastor kept on talking right over him, though with the way his lips—still pulled into that overly large smile he always wore—twitched at the corners like he was holding back a laugh, he knew he heard him anyway.

”— _and it would never look good for the hotel to discourage patrons from sinning while the employee manning the front desk has drank over a dozen bottles—“_

”Fourteen now,” he said, grabbing another, because really, Alastor couldn’t fucking stop him.

 _“...I don’t expect you to cut drinking entirely, no,”_ he continued, eyes still trained on him. _“But to cut back is all I ask, before our dear Charlie takes matters into her own hands.”_

He didn’t like the sound of that—Charlie seemed nice enough, as far as literal fucking demons went, although she was overly excited, too cheerful for his liking, really, but she seemed like the type who’d make him go cold turkey with no warning, right off the bat, because she thought it’d help.

...Alastor literally only had him working here under the promise of cheap booze, the smiling son of a bitch. “Alright, fine,” he said. “I’ll try to cut back.”

His grin seemed to brighten, suddenly. _“Excellent—I’ll inform Charlie of the good news, I’m sure she’d love to offer any sort of assistance you could need.”_

”...Great,” he said. He looked over his bottle again, but he could only really half-heartedly drink until he passed out. He’d at least wait to overindulge until Alastor wasn’t standing over him, breathing down his neck.

...Why was he working here again?

Angel shivered so hard that night, he thought he pulled something when he got up in the morning.

Withdrawals sucked. He did not want to get out of bed—so he didn’t. He wasn’t hungry anyway—he finally had a name for that fucking drug Valentino had gotten him hooked on.

 _Heroin._ He was a _heroin_ junkie. He felt disgusting just thinking about that, like somehow PCP was any better than heroin.

And every time he shut his eyes, he saw his brother and Vaggie looking at him—their expressions _haunted_ him, because he couldn’t figure out what was in them. Horror? Concern? Judgement? He didn’t think he wanted either of those, so he just wished they hadn’t been there—Niffty had been trying to help, maybe, sure, but goddamnit, she had called _Vaggie?_ Just so they could watch his legs shake as he limped back to the hotel with them, high and miserable?

He groaned into his pillow. Fat Nuggets shifted on his stomach, Peaches on his chest—it wasn’t comfortable, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t be comfortable, no matter how much he tried to be, so he figured he’d just suffer quietly and let his pigs be happy, and damn, did they look happy when they were sleeping on top of him.

He turned his head to look back up at the ceiling—his phone, which he had pushed beneath his pillow at some point, buzzed. He thought about it for a moment before he tugged it back into the open and looked at his new notifications.

Valentino had texted him— _Whenever you’re ready to sign another contract, Angel Cakes 💕_

And then again. _Watch your weight, sugar—I want to be able to feel your ribs next time I need to punish you for being so bad._

He’d probably keep texting him, to make sure Angel saw it—he didn’t like being ignored. He wanted to bother Angel. He swallowed his pride and shot back a simple, _Yes, Val_ —tried and true. Couldn’t piss him off anymore than he already was.

Another buzz. _Good boy 💕_

...He wondered if he needed to be more brave or more suicidal to bring himself to block him. Either way, he wasn’t any braver or more suicidal than he was, so he just let his phone drop next to him and stared at the ceiling again.

But now he couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday—the cool leather on his skin, Valentino’s stupid fucking cigars, the way his fingers dug into Angel’s hips, _why are you bein’ so bad for me, Angie?_

He felt bile rise into his throat. He nudged Fat Nuggets off of him, “Get off o’ Mama,” he said—his voice was so hoarse, it was barley recognizable. He moved Peaches, stepped towards the bathroom with long, quick strides and retched up the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl.

He didn’t have much in his stomach—he might have drank some water earlier, and Niffty brought him a muffin and had tried very hard to convince him to let her clean his room (which he had refused, expecting her to push her way in and clean it anyway, because he really wouldn’t be able to stop her, she moved too quick for him) that he had picked at (before Fat Nuggets had snatched it and then Peaches had demanded their share of it) for a bit.

He groaned and leaned against the wall of the bathroom—his head was killing him all over again.

With the door open still, he heard his phone buzz, still on his bed—probably Valentino again, being a jackass. He didn’t want to get his phone, to see whatever the fuck he had texted him, but whatever the fuck it was, it was probably bad, and now he was wondering what it was, but he did _not_ want to know.

He’d literally rather fuck a thousand ciswomen than have sex with Valentino. He hated everything about Valentino—his suffocatingly sweet cigars (yesterday they had smelled like cherries, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to eat cherries again without a part of him dying inside), his stupid fucking coat, the sound of his fucking _voice—_

He’d fuck a million ciswomen before he willingly had sex with Valentino. A million, elderly, _bitchy_ ciswomen too. He’d _really_ fuck them too—vaginal, anal, he’d eat them out, all that stuff he had never liked doing, if it meant Valentino stayed away from him. That was never gonna happen, (fucking a bitch ciswoman would do nothing to keep Valentino away) but the point still stood.

That was how much he hated Valentino. He shut his eyes—he was probably only there for a moment or two before he opened them again, and when he did, Cherri was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. “...Didn’t hear ya come in, Sugartits,” he said.

”I texted you,” she said. “...But I’m guessing you didn’t see it.”

”Thought it was Val,” he responded.

She took a step closer, crouched down to be at his level. “You feeling alright?”

”Yep,” he said. “Feelin’ great—when I feel this good, I make myself sick and throw up in the bathroom.”

”Okay, that was a stupid question.” She reached out to feel his forehead. “...I can’t tell temperature like this,” she said, and then moved some of his hair to look at his forehead. “ _Crikey._ ”

”Fuck, I forgot ya were an Aussie for a sec’ there.”

”What the fuck did that bastard do to you, Angie?” She asked.

 _Angie._ And she was wearing that perfume—

Fuck. Valentino had ruined Cherri’s nickname for him.

He threw up again—it was disgusting he hated himself, and he felt like Cherri should be grossed out, but instead, she just pulled some of his hair back. “Holy shit...”

He coughed—his mouth tasted sour, his head was still pounding. A part of him wanted to cry, but he felt like that was stupid—he just wanted to lock himself in his room for all eternity. Maybe that was the fastest path to redemption—couldn’t sin if you didn’t leave your bed?

...Except sloth _was_ a sin.

Fuck, there was no winning! “I’m so sorry,” Cherri said. “...Come on, let’s get you into bed, you look like shit.”

He groaned in response, let Cherri tug him to his feet and lead him to bed. “Where’d that bastard touch you?”

Where _hadn’t_ he touched Angel? “God, ya don’t wanna hear ‘bout it, Cherri.”

She frowned. “...Do I need to get the first aid?”

”No,” he told her. “Just some bruises, and... that cut. I’m... fine.”

”Did he seriously tear your stitches out?” She looked him over. “You’re not healing fast enough.”

”Cherri,” he sighed. “I’m fine. Please don’t...”

She paused for a moment. “...Alright,” she said.

They lasped into silence before Cherri fell onto the bed with him, curled up next to him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was with Charlie, when Niffty called—if I had known, I would have come, I swear, but I didn’t know what was happening until we were done talking and went out to the bar... Husk barely knew what was happening, just said Vaggie left in a rush after Niffty called... Moment you came back, I realized what happened, but you... didn’t seem to want to talk about it, I thought you needed to... process or something.”

He wasn’t sure what there was to process—it was the same old thing that always happened between him and Valentino. He could struggle, he could scream, he could cry, but Valentino always won.

”...Angie?” She rested a hand onto his shoulder—for a moment, it wasn’t like he was in the hotel anymore, but in his old apartment, curled up in bed while Cherri checked in on him, feeling like _shit_ , not sure what he’d done to deserve Cherri’s friendship and her comfort, right when he needed it most—

God, that had been one of the worst nights of his afterlife. He had been scared, angry—he remembered grabbing something, something made of glass and throwing it against a wall. He was pretty sure it shattered. He remembered Fat Nuggets getting scared—scared of his own Mama, what had he been thinking?

He _hadn’t_ been thinking—he had just been angry, and he had hated his body like it was the reason he was feeling the way he had been, and he had wanted to get out of it—his flawless, beautiful body...

He hadn’t been thinking, then, for a while, he didn’t even think he was feeling—he was drowning in resentment and sorrow so much, he hadn’t been able to feel anything, all he was able to do was _cry_ for hours, curled up in bed, because no amount of drugs could save him now—there was no ODing in Hell, there was no way out of a contract with Valentino, and that night, he had wondered about that fucking gun Val kept in his desk with the holy bullets, kept more for show than anything—he could kill a demon, if he wanted to, if one pissed him off enough.

Angel had never managed to do that—he remembered entertaining the fantasy of breaking into his office, stealing the gun and... what then? Shooting his boss, so he could never hurt Angel again? Shooting himself so no one could ever hurt him again?

...Maybe both would have been good—two birds, and... two bullets from one gun.

It would have been fitting too—Valentino was in control of most all aspects of his afterlife, it would have felt good to at least have some control over the end of Valentino’s. And frankly, he would have been doing Hell a favor, getting rid of an asswipe like Valentino, and with him dead, it’d be the end of it. What the fuck was Velvet and Vox going to do to him if he was already dead? Jack fucking shit.

...Even suicidal as fuck, he had known it was a fantasy—he’d never get to kill Valentino. Shoot himself, maybe, if he was quick, and _no one_ in Hell would stop anyone from doing anything if they were currently holding a gun full of holy bullets...

It was a good thing Cherri had been there that night—she really had talked him out of it. What would Nuggets do without a Mama?

...A Mama with such poor mental health he frightened his babies like that.

Cherri was still waiting for a response.

”...I hate it,” he said, finally. “When he calls me that.” Cherri squeezed, gently—it was a comforting gesture, but he wasn’t sure if he could take much of anyone’s hands on him. “...It’s just wrong. I can live with-with _Angel Cakes_ and _baby cakes_ , and all that fuckin’ shit, but he calls me _Angie_ , and I feel _sick._ ”

Her voice was gentle—she kept her hand where it was. “Do you want me to... call you that again? Like last time?”

Last time. ...God, just hearing it now put him on edge. “...Honestly, I think I... don’t want ya to call me that again. I don’t think I ever wanna be called Angie again.”

Her gaze softened. “Alright,” she said, then. “If... If it really bothers you, I’ll come with some other dumb nickname. One your asshat of a boss won’t know—and it’ll be our thing, and he can’t take it away from you, because he doesn’t know about it.”

He smiled. “You’re the best, Cherri.”

”Tell me about it—Gel.”

He laughed. Cherri gave him a small smile—it did make him feel better.

_His entire body was aching. He was walking home with a limp, all four of his fists clenched, shaking like a leaf—he wanted to hit something, but at least he was going home._

_He was mad, pissed, scared in a way he didn’t think he had ever been before, but there was no point in fear—the danger had passed. He was going home. He was safe enough._

_When he was finally home, he could curl up beneath the covers of his bed and pet his pig and get ready to continue on tomorrow, like tonight hadn’t sucked ass the way it did._

_He went up the stairs of the apartment complex until he finally reached his own apartment—small and old and cheap. It sucked, but at least it wasn’t the studio._

_He sighed, and grabbed his keys from his pocket—he needed to feed Fat Nuggets, he was gonna brush his teeth and try to get the taste of Valentino’s cum out of his mouth and maybe change out of his slut gear and into something a bit more comfortable. Maybe he’d call Cherri and they could talk for awhile, something to distract himself from—_

_The door swung open—to reveal his dressing room at the studio._

_He stood in the doorway for a moment. ...That wasn’t right, he_ left _the studio, walked all the way home to his apartment—_

_He looked back in the hall. It was the hall to his apartment, this should be his apartment..._

_...It didn’t matter anyway. He shut the door behind him and sighed, leaned up against it for a moment, like he was trying to keep his mind fuck of a bundle of emotions from following him into his ~~apartment~~ dressing room. He still hurt from what Valentino had done to him—_

_...He was supposed to be safe in his apartment. Why wasn’t he there?_

_There was the sound of a match being struck on the other side of his dressing room—he looked over, but Valentino was nothing more than a silhouette, consumed in hot pink, cherry scented smoke. “Angel Cakes.”_

_He blinked. “...Fuck you.” He opened the door again stepped out into the hallway. If his dressing room was where his apartment should be, then his apartment must be where his dressing room should be, right? It made sense to him. He walked back to the studio._

_...He didn’t work at the studio anymore._

_He stopped in the middle of the street. Somehow, that thought had him stopping. He couldn’t go to the studio if he didn’t work there, what was he thinking?_

_Valentino’s limo came barreling down the street, stopping an inch or two away from him. “Fuck you!” Angel shouted at it, like it was the limo he was actually mad at. He glanced down at it—the license plate was unreadable. “Fuck you—this is a dream! Ya know how I know this is a dream?” He gestured to the license plate. “This is s’posed to say somethin’ about... somethin’, I don’t really remember right now, but I can’t read it—ya can’t read shit in dreams, that part o’ your brain shuts off when you’re asleep.”_

_The limo stood completely still—it’s headlights were like eyes, peering right through him. He should move off the street, now this was just kind of weird._

_He made a move to get onto the sidewalk, but he didn’t move. ...He couldn’t move. He turned back to the limo, still there._

_With no warning, it crashed into him at a breakneck speed._

Angel woke up confused, weirdly scared, sweaty, and shivering. Whatever the fuck that dream had been about, it had been... weird. “Fuckin’ Hell,” he breathed.

His phone vibrated—he bet it was Valentino, but just went ahead and picked it up while Fat Nuggets nuzzled one of his hands with an adoration that was almost violent in nature.

To his surprise, it was actually Arackniss texting him, a brief, _You still alive?_

He blinked—was he up for this? He had punched Arackniss in the face last time they talked, so he wasn’t sure why Arackniss was eager to talk to him. _Actually, I died in the late forties,_ he responded back.

 _Very funny, Angel_. Another text. _Listen: there’s this thing I need to tell... someone about, just to get it off my chest, and you’re the best candidate. Any chance I can talk to you later about it?_

...Last time he saw him, he punched him in the face, and his brother still wanted to have a heart to heart? _You confessing to murder or something, Niss?_

 _That’d be easier._ It would be. 

He drummed his fingers on the bedspread and exhaled slowly through his nose—might as well, it’d be better than sitting there and thinking about how much these withdrawals sucked. _You can come to the hotel whenever, it’s not like I’m doing anything today._

There wasn’t much to do, really—he went ahead and got dressed in his usual outfit, so he’d at least look like he wasn’t dying, and figured he’d go down to the lobby, his pigs in tow, because why would he ever want to go anywhere without his pigs?

Husk was behind the bar, like usual, Niffty sitting on a stool while she spoke with him—Angel knew from the way the hotel smelled lemony and everything was sparkling clean that, for now, she had ran out of work to do, so she was with her usual set up when she got to do things other than clean—a virgin rum and coke to her left, her laptop in front of her. Alastor had suggested they buy her a typewriter, but Niffty told him typewriters couldn’t connect to the internet and she needed to be able to post her fanfiction. Alastor had balked at the need for _modern_ technology, but hadn’t done anything to stop Vaggie from buying her the laptop she needed, and even with the sizable dent in the money in the swear jar, Charlie, Vaggie and Alastor were still trying to figure out what the fuck to do with the other nine thousand eight hundred and thirty six dollars in the swear jar.

Vaggie had looked so proud of herself when she suggested the swear jar with Charlie—like she had forgotten that she swore almost or just as much as Angel.

When he sat down at the bar, to Niffty’s frantic typing and Husk looking honestly pretty dead inside, Vaggie was muttering mean things beneath her breath while she went through her pockets and made it nine thousand eight hundred and thirty nine dollars. “You still alive?” Husk asked.

”More or less,” he responded. “I think a cocktail’d make me feel more alive, Husky.”

Husk looked at him flatly. “...You look like shit.”

”Fuckin’ Hell, please just get me a drink, Husk.”

Vaggie turned to look at him—he sighed and pulled out two dollars. Nine thousand eight hundred and forty one dollars in the swear jar. Alastor seemed to think this was a great time to waltz into the room, humming and grinning like he usually was when he entered the room. _“Curse much more and we’ll be able to buy a second hotel!”_ He laughed.

”Yeah, I’m helpin’ this joint,” he said. “One step closer to redemption, makin’ this place better, one fuckin’ swear word at a time.” He placed another dollar into it. He had already forgotten how much money was in the jar.

Niffty looked up from her computer screen, mouth set in a firm line. “I have a serious question,” she said. “What’s tequila taste like?”

Vaggie answered, “Like your skin is trying to crawl off your body.”

Niffty frowned. Husk added, “But in a good way.”

Alastor grabbed a bottle and slid it towards her. ” _Why don’t you find out, dear?”_ Niffty brightened and reached for the bottle, only for Husk to pull it away from her by the neck.

”No, Niffty—“ Husk was looking at her sternly, like someone scolding a puppy for eating their shoes or something. “—last time you drank, you had a singular shot in your drink drink and you _regretted_ it.”

”Oh, come on, Husk—I can take a little bit. I’m twenty two, that’s way past the legal drinking age, right?”

Vaggie nodded. “Yeah, you can drink—I don’t think Hell even has a legal drinking age.”

Husk stared at both of them like they were stupid. “The legal drinking age is twenty one.”

”...Where?” Vaggie asked. “The government can’t actually expect you to wait until your twenty one to drink.”

”What was it in El Salvador?” Husk asked.

”Eighteen?”

”Eighteen? You’re brain isn’t fully developed, you’re gonna kill yourself or something, that’s just wrong.”

Angel shrugged. “I remember it bein’ eighteen in New York when I was alive,” he said.

”Yeah,” Husk said. “They also used to give children heroin to help with their coughs in like, nineteen thirteen—the entirety of history is people making really fucking bad decisions.”

”Really?” Vaggie asked. “Did it work?”

 _“It got rid of your cough,”_ Alastor chimed in.

Niffty reached for the bottle again, and poured a small amount into a glass—like, half a shot. Husk looked at her but made no move to stop her, only sighed and took the bottle back when she was done pouring. Smiling ever so sweetly, Niffty raised the glass to her lips and swallowed a mouthful. Everyone waited for her to choke or gasp or something, but instead she just set it down. “...Tastes sweeter than I’d thought—does all tequila taste like that? I didn’t really like it, I think, but it wasn’t terrible—I think I still have my skin!”

 _”For now,”_ Alastor told her, patting her head—she giggled and set her glass back down before going back to writing her fanfiction.

There was a beat. “...Alastor,” Husk said. “We better not wake up tomorrow to find Niffty skinned. Don’t skin Niffty. That should go without saying.” Angel imagined Niffty would be very upset if Alastor skinned her—it’d make a mess, and she’d be pretty much unable to successfully clean it, she’d go insane.

_”Oh, Husker, you know I’d never skin Niffty—too much of a darling, and too little skin to be able to use in anything.”_

”Yeah,” Niffty chirped. “If anything, you should worry about me skinning Alastor, that’s _just_ as likely.”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow. “...That’s a joke, right?”

Niffty only smiled.

Conversations like these were becoming more and more commonplace in the hotel—it felt like it had taken awhile, but Angel swore that was an overwhelming sort of fondness in his chest for this place and all the dumbasses inside. He wondered how many of these exchanges he had missed out on when he locked himself in his room to be miserable while he detoxed—he was sure hearing something like this would have brightened his mood.

...Or he would have threatened Niffty again.

Maybe it was a good thing he had stayed in his room. Nothing worse than an aggravated, drunken, detoxing hooker to ruin everyone’s fun. He knew he could be a bitch when he was trying to get clean.

Arackniss was over within the hour, expression the same grim one he wore the last time he had been over. “Wassup, Niss?” He greeted. “Who’d you kill?”

”No one _important_ ,” he said, dryly, looking him over—at the very least, when he got closer, he didn’t comment on Angel’s appearance. He was trying to look normal, put together, but he looked like... well, like a detoxing hooker.

Maybe he’d get a new wardrobe at some point. Something to take his mind off of things for the day—he could make it a day out with Cherri, it’d be fun. “Your cut’s healin’,” Arackniss said.

Slowly but surely. “Charlie says there must be somethin’ wrong with...” ...What was the word she had used? He was drawing a blank. Fuck. He continued on without the word, hoping Arackniss would somehow not notice. “...that’s makin’ me heal slower than usual. Was happenin’ ‘fore I got knocked out, too, it took a full week for one o’ my capitates to heal properly.”

”One of your _what?_ ”

”Capitate.” He raised a hand and wriggled his fingers to draw Arackniss’ attention to it. “It’s a bone in the hand. Fuckin’ shattered it, it and my uh, scaphoid and lunate, bones in the wrist.”

”How the fuck did you break _three_ bones in your wrist?”

”I was doin’ a lot o’ wrist movements that day. I’m real good with my hands, it’s what I’m paid to do.”

 _“Certo, cazzo—_ wanna hear ‘bout our parents?”

”Shit, alright, I’ll stop talkin’ ‘bout my job, don’t bring them into this.” He took a sip from his cocktail. Husk was watching their conversation with a sort of half-interest—Vaggie had long since found some sort of job thing to do with Charlie and Alastor had fucked off to fuck knew where, while Niffty had found something to clean on the other side of the lobby, humming some chipper tune Angel didn’t recognize.

Arackniss stopped for a long moment—when he went this deep in thought, he’d have his hand on the nearest hard surface to drum his fingers, but fell too deep into thinking he wouldn’t move at all. That was how Angel knew this was serious. “...Is it about them?” Angel asked. “That thing ya needed to get off ya chest?”

He spoke slowly. “...Sorta. It’s...Oh, god, I dunno how to say it—this is that type of thing that, if Pops knew about, he’d wring my fuckin’ neck.”

”Lotta things Pop would wring someone’s neck for,” he said. “Hate to break it to ya, Niss, but our Pops ain’t the type to solve his problems through any other way than violence.”

”Angel, you don’t get it—he doesn’t even know I still talk to you.”

Of course. It made sense, Angel wasn’t sure what he was expecting—sometimes, the less their father knew, the better, and now that he was estranged from all sides of the family...

His father would be pissed to hear it—basically his only son, hanging out with a queer? Homosexuality wasn’t compatible to their business. He’d worry—what if Angel corrupted his brother?

Fucking bullshit. All of it. Angel was tough as leather—and leather could be made into thigh high boots with five inch heels, it wasn’t his fault his father was a bigot. “Yeah,” Angel said. “Can’t say I blame ya.”

Arackniss ran a hand through his hair. “Keep this on the downlow, seriously—I dunno what I’d do if anyone heard about it, but I... I honestly feel like I need to tell someone, and... I guess I trust you with somethin’ like this.”

He put a hand on his chest, over his heart, all dramatic. “Aw, Niss, ya trust me?” He kept his voice joking, to hide the fact that he was genuinely touched by the idea of a meaningful relationship with his brother.

...Had he always been a sap for his family? He thought that had just been Miele.

Arackniss squirmed in his seat. “Any... Any chance we can go somewhere else?” He glanced at Husk. “Somewhere... private?”

”Don’t look at me,” Husk said. “I couldn’t care less about your bullshit, Angel gives me plenty of drama over every fucking drink.”

Angel shot him a grin. “I don’t think I’ll be able to fill ya in on this, Husky—I’ll find somethin’ else to keep you entertained later tonight, though, I’m sure o’ it.” Husk rolled his eyes when he winked—but he might have been blushing, which was a win in his book. “We can go up in my room, if ya really want, Niss—just let me finish my—“

Had he been holding onto his phone this whole conversation? He couldn’t remember, but it was in his hand and then it wasn’t. He cursed beneath his breath so the swear jar wouldn’t bankrupt him anymore and knelt down to pick it up.

And his phone case was still fucking janky—least his phone wasn’t any more damaged, that’d be just his luck, too. “Goddamnit,” he said.

The case had a crack down the middle—he’d need to order a new one, when he had money that wasn’t in the swear jar. He continued to mutter curses when he pulled it off and slapped his phone on the counter, now bare and chucked it into the trash. One piece missed, landed next to the trash can, but Niffty exclaimed, “I’ll get it!” And rushed over quickly before Angel could do so much as get up again.

And there his phone was, black and damn near identical to Arackniss’ phone on the counter, side by side. “...Let me finish my drink,” he said, remembering he had been mid sentence. “And then you can spill your guts or whatever.”

”...Okay,” he said. They went back to sitting in silence, before Arackniss’ fingers curled around the edge of the counter and he called over to Husk. “How much for an old fashioned?”

”Five,” he said.

”Make it a double and I’ll give you twelve.” Arackniss was grimacing—this must have been serious.

Angel thought he should be way more curious about this than he was, but he was a little too focused to finishing up the last of his drink.

He thought his phone buzzed—he reached to grab it, not really paying attention to where his hand really reached, just pulled it over and looked at his lock screen and he swore to _God,_ he hadn’t seen much.

Just a singular text that started with _Nissy,_ before he had stopped reading. “Shit,” Angel said, putting it back on the other side of his phone, closest to his brother. “Who the fuck calls you _Nissy?”_

His brother stared at him with something akin to horror. He stammered out a response, something like, _Uh, um... no one,_ before sighing and burying his face in his hands. “...That’s actually what I came here to talk to you about.”

Top contenders was (Ceci)Lia, because supposedly, she was Arackniss’ wife, and some sort of mystery chick, but he didn’t think his brother the type to have a side piece. “You cheatin’ on the missus?” He asked.

”...It’s not cheatin’ if she knows,” he sighed. “She... She knows, damnit...”

”Right, she’s sleepin’ with that mechanic, right?”

”...No,” Arackniss said. “That was a lie. ...She’s not sleeping with a mechanic—I... Well, uh, first of all, it’s an inventor, and... second of all, it’s not... her. It’s...”

Angel wasn’t catching on at all. He drained his glass and realized Arackniss had gone weirdly silent.

And he still didn’t know where the conversation was going.

Arackniss wasn’t really the nervous sort, but goddamn, he was a fucking wreck today.

...If his brother hadn’t grabbed his phone by mistake, he probably would have bowed out of this by now, but he had come too far to turn back. “...It’s me. I’m sleeping with the mechanic. The one that’s not actually a mechanic.” 

“...An inventor,” Angel said. “...Honestly, that sounds kinda hot, in a way, I guess. Is she cute?”

The bartender was catching on better than his brother. “Angel, I don’t think that’s what he means.”

Angel frowned—Arackniss didn’t want to say it. He didn’t. This was wrong, this was wrong, but he...

If this had happened _before,_ he’d want someone to tell him that it was wrong, and he was wrong for feeling this way, and he was sick, and he could never tell anyone about it before, but they...

 _They_ didn’t think it was wrong. _They_ didn’t think there was anything wrong with Arackniss. From day one, they had been understanding, and compassionate, and... weirdly _loving,_ and they had made Arackniss feel something he hadn’t even felt towards his fiancée. 

...And they were... a _he._

Just thinking it made him want to throw himself off a bridge—some sort of knee jerk reaction, he guessed. “Angel, I’m... I think I’m...”

Something must have clicked. All of a sudden, Angel’s face went blank and something in his whole demeanor changed and Arackniss was sitting there, trying to not show how stupidly terrified he was. Something inside him was shaking—this was wrong, this was wrong, _this was wrong._

But if worse came to worst, it might at least be something to bond with his brother about. “Wait,” Angel said.

And he did. He waited. Husk was looking uneasy at him—great. The fucking bartender knew he was a fucking queer. If this got back to the rest of the family—

“...Ya mean to tell me...” He said slowly. “That you’re fuckin’ an inventor? A _male_ inventor?”

He gave a small nod that he barely felt, but Angel must have seen.

”...And... He calls you _Nissy.”_

”...Yeah.” At least his voice didn’t shake or anything, that’d be fucking stupid. If he was gonna get offed for being a fucking queer, he’d at least face his death like a fucking man.

A queer man, but a man.

”...Like the Loch Ness monster?” Angel asked.

”...Sorta.”

Angel went quiet for a long, long moment—he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He was rigid in his bar stool. Once again on the other side of the lobby, Niffty was still humming, either ignoring their conversation or completely unaware.

Finally, Angel spoke again, voice quiet. “You son of a bitch.”

He should have expected this—why didn’t he expect this? No, there was something wrong with him, something even his brother despised.

Angel’s voice was louder, his hand on his glass tightening. _“You son of a bitch!”_

Husk was staring at Angel. “Angel, I think you need to calm down—“

Angel was not listening—his grip tightened on the glass so hard, it burst into shards, falling on the counter and the floor—the noise (or maybe the shouting had) drew Niffty over, already armed with a dust pan and a broom. “You came all the fuckin’ way here to tell me—“ He cut himself off. “What kind o’ sick joke _is this,_ Arackniss?” He was still shouting.

The glass must have torn through his glove, because pink was dripping off his hand and into the carpet—Niffty had stopped nearby to gaze up at them, mouth drawn into an upside down _v_ shape. “Husk,” she called over them. “I think we need to get the first aid!”

”It’s not a joke,” he said, feeling like he had to defend himself somehow. “I... I really like him, Tony—Angel. I mean, Angel.” Fuck. He had fucked up. This was a stupid decision—he had been weak, he should have sucked it up and continued on like it hadn’t happened, but no, he had to go and be a fucking idiot on top of a fucking queer and now the only family member that could potentially understand this was gonna fucking hate him. And he fucking deserved it! “...I’ve never felt this way ‘bout someone before, and I... I figured you...”

”No,” Angel said. ” _No_ , you cannot turn this all around, and... and act like this is somethin’ we have in common! This is so fuckin’ different, you... you thought, what, Arackniss? That-That ya could turn your back on me for bein’ a queer for-for _years,_ for _decades,_ and then reconnect with me ‘cause ya decided yaliked _anal_?”

Niffty blinked up at them—Arackniss wondered if she was stupid, because she looked more confused than anything. Angel looked ready to murder someone, and he could drop kick her if he tried, she should get out of his way. “We need more than a fucking first aid, kid,” Husk said. “Go get Vaggie.”

”You _sack of shit_!” Angel screeched. “I got thrown outta the house for bein’ queer! I was disowned! All because _you_ caught me!”

He had came in here, telling himself to not get defensive if Angel did get angry, that that wouldn’t solve anything—he was apparently not going to listen to himself. _“I_ didn’t throw you outta the house, Tony!” He didn’t catch himself this time. “You know that was Pops!”

”Yeah, and _no one_ fuckin’ stopped him!” He shouted. “And like, fuck, I ain’t _surprised,_ but you and the family spent decades down here pretendin’ I didn’t fuckin’ exist!”

”I know you exist!” It was not a good defense.

”No,” Angel shouted. He was shaking with rage. “Fuck you, Arackniss! It’s your fault all o’ that even fuckin’ happened! I coulda gone the rest o’ my fuckin’ life without anyone knowin’, but you just _had_ to fuckin’ change that!”

”I didn’t tell Pops, you fuckin’ know that!”

”And-And now ya think ya can tell me you’re a queer too? And-And I’ll just... accept ya? You didn’t accept _me,_ Arackniss, it took ya over half a fuckin’ century to come around, to even act like I fuckin’ existed half the fuckin’ time!”

”I knew you existed!” God, he was not helping his case.

He honestly kind of saw it coming when Angel dove at him, tackling him to the ground and slamming his fist into his jaw hard enough to make his teeth rattle. Niffty had already hurried off to fetch Vaggie, apparently, but Husk shouted something, probably telling Angel to stop.

If Angel thought he’d just sit there and take it, he was sorely mistaken.

Another punch, somewhere near his temple. He aimed for Angel’s throat. Angel got off of him when the blow hit, and then they were still fighting—He got another hit to one of Angel’s eyes, and then Angel straddled his waist and punched him again, and again—

He guessed he wasn’t that good at fighting. If someone got on top of him like this, the fight was basically already lost, and Angel seriously could have kept punching him until he passed out, but then there was hurried footsteps and someone hauled Angel off of him.

He blinked the blurriness out of his vision enough to see Husk holding Angel back, but just barely. And he was still shouting. “Fuck you!” He shouted. “It’s your fuckin’ fault, fuck you—“ His voice cracked, and he almost broke down, but he was still fighting, trying to pull himself away from Husk and launch himself at Arackniss all over again.

Vaggie had already thrown herself between the two of them, pointing her spear at his throat when he got up, and then—when he made no move to attack Angel, turned back to Angel with it. “ _Both of you_ ,” she snarled. “Need to chill _the fuck_ out!”

Angel’s breathing was shaky, and he was glaring past Vaggie at him, with nothing but rage and hatred in his eyes, and it was like they were back in the alley, screaming at the top of their lungs at each other all over again. _“Vaffanculo, fottuto bastardo—_ “ And despite his gaze, there was no venom in his voice, his voice cracked again, his words ended in a sob.

”And no shouting in Italian, either,” Vaggie said. “ _Bastardo_ means the same thing it does in Italian as it does in Spanish.” She glared at both of them—but it softened when Angel collapsed on his knees, done pulling against Husk’s grip.

...God, he had fucked up. This was a mistake.

And he had let him talk him into this—he had said it’d be good, to get it off his chest, and for _him,_ Arackniss would give the world. He had looked hopeful when he said, like he knew how much he wanted this, deep down, and he had said it in a way that made Arackniss believe it, and it wasn’t fair for Arackniss to be so ashamed he kept it to himself, not when his new boyfriend was _adorably_ excited and wanted to tell everyone how much he loved Arackniss.

...He thought he could do this. And he thought wrong.

He grabbed his phone off the counter and shoved it into his pocket. Angel wasn’t even looking at him anymore, a pair of hands over his eyes, damn near silent. Husk was talking quietly, saying something only to Angel, looking at least somewhat concerned.

It didn’t feel right to just leave, but it didn’t feel right to stay, so he settled for muttering, _“Mi dispiace,_ ” before walking out the doors.

The moment the doors shut, the anger returned—the bone deep sorrow, the need to _get away_ , the unbearable pain of the _unfairness_ of it all, all topped with uncontrollable rage.

He rose back to his feet and started shouting in Italian again, ready to follow Arackniss and let the entire street know his brother wasn’t just a queer, but a real jackass too, but Husk didn’t relinquish his grip.

”Damnit, lemme go,” he said. “Damnit, Husk—“

”It’s not worth it,” Husk said, and he _still_ didn’t let go. “I know you think it’s gonna be, but it’s not, Angel.”

He glared at the door—he was not going to break down in tears again, not in the middle of the fucking lobby. “Damnit,” he breathed, because he knew Husk was right.

And then it clicked that everyone was staring at him. With his brother gone, he was the main focus of their attention, and not in a fun way, or a sexy way, or a way that was even remotely good.

He had made a fool out of himself—he was hysterical, crying in the lobby, and his makeup was running. “Ya fuckos can quit starin’,” he spat, but it came out broken instead of angry. Husk let go of him, he wiped at his eyes with the back of his injured hand, still dripping pink blood.

Niffty stepped forward, grabbed his lower hand, one that wasn’t injured. “Let’s go clean your hand,” she said. “It looks like you need stitches.”

He jerked his hand out of her grip fast—she flinched back. Maybe for a minute there, he was gonna hit her? He didn’t know. “I’m good,” he responded, tone hardened, harsher than he meant it. “Go clean up the glass or somethin’, I don’t care.”

Before anyone else could piss him off, he went to the stairs. He was just gonna sit in his room and... pet his pigs or something, anything was better than sitting in his bed and being angry, and even that was better than being down in the lobby so he could feel stupid while he lashed out at everyone.

He stopped in the hall, Cherri was standing nearby, shifting on her feet and looking at him—he kept walking to his room, almost ignoring her. He knew she heard everything, and she hadn’t gone out there because she had been planning on ambushing him when he stormed out—Cherri knew him well, but he knew her just as.

”Angie,” she said, gently, reached out to grab his arm, but he jerked it roughly out of her hand.

”Don’t,” he said—his tone was still harsh. ...He was snapping at his best friend. He was being a prick. He needed to calm down.

He forced his shoulders to slump, his fists to unclench—if he hit Cherri or something, he’d never forgive himself, and (hopefully) Cherri’d never forgive him. “...Look, Cherri, I—I need a minute, okay? I dunno what the fuck ya heard down there, but I-I _need a minute._ ”

She looked at him, hand pulled back but hovering in the air like she was gonna grab his shoulder or something—he hated her for it, because he knew he did the same thing when he was about to comfort someone, before he always changed his mind, because he didn’t really make things better.

He thought she’d say something, about how she was there when he needed to talk, about how she loved him, to text her when he needed her, if he needed anything, but instead she just said, “Okay,” and let him keep walking.

...She respected his boundaries, he knew that, but it _felt_ like she didn’t care.

He slammed the door to his room shut—it woke up his pigs, sleeping on his bed, and he almost went over to his bed, but he didn’t think he trusted himself around anything small and cute right now, so he just pressed his back against the wall.

His phone buzzed in his pocket—had he grabbed it before he went up stairs? He couldn’t remember. He glanced at it—if it was Arackniss, he was gonna tear his arms off and shove them so far up his ass, his new stupid fucking boyfriend wasn’t going to even be able to get a blowie.

It wasn’t Arackniss— _Valentino_ had texted him, because obviously that was a step up. _The second you want back at the studio, Angel Cakes, you let me know—I already printed out a nice, new contract for you, I think you’re gonna like it, baby 💕._

He felt sick. He was angry, so he was also stupid, so he texted back, _That’s never gonna happen, Val._

He would have felt better if Valentino got mad, or threatened him with another snuff film, but instead he said, _I’m not so sure, baby cakes. You’ll come around when you relapse, sugar ❤️_ and it pissed him off enough to throw his phone at the wall, where it shattered into a million pieces.

...He wanted drugs. He wanted to bury himself in enough blow to suffocate himself, enough heroin to cover every last inch of his body in track marks. He was angry, and broke, and his body hurt, and he wanted to piss off Val, and nothing pissed him off the way Angel slutting up street corners without his pimp’s say so did.

Those two things went hand in hand, he supposed.

And there she was, on unfamiliar streets in a red city.

...It was weird. If you asked her _before_ what Hell looked like, she’d guess fire and brimstone and eternal torture. But now that it was _after_ , Hell was almost exactly what she expected.

She was just standing in a red city, full of neon signs and billboards and people walking around with just as many limbs as her, if not more—so she didn’t feel that weird, standing on the sidewalk and glancing around like a kid who lost sight of their mother.

A pang of homesickness had her faltering—maybe this was a bad idea, but...

...They were definitely down here. She knew they were.

She kept walking, slowly, rubbing one of her arms—she got the feeling the streets weren’t really safe, considering this was Hell and, let’s face it, she was super hot, but she decided she’d be fine. She was on a mission.

Where could they be? Hell seemed kinda large, and very full—buildings were pushed up just about side by side. Earlier today, the streets had been crowded with cars, and demons strolled by on the sidewalk, poured out of bars and diners and stores, going on with their afterlives because this was all normal to them, as new as it was to her.

She was so caught up in thoughts, she didn’t notice the limo pull up to the curb until the window rolled down and it clicked the passenger was staring directly at her.

She stopped.

The man was tall, with blue tinted skin and heart shaped glasses over his eyes, clutching a cigar. “Where are _you_ goin’, sweetness?” He asked.

...Oh, she didn’t know him. This guy didn’t know her—sixth time today, and... maybe this counted as her ninth cat call? “Sorry, ya got the wrong person,” she said, and turned completely to face him.

He looked her over—she had seen a handful of billboards of him, enough to know they looked a lot alike, especially from afar, but, hopefully now, this man could realize she wasn’t who he was looking for? “...You’re not Angel Dust,” he said.

”Afraid not, stranga. If it makes ya feel any betta, though, ya not the first ta think that.”

He was still staring. “...You’re just as pretty, though,” he said.

She should probably feel flattered, but she just had a gut feeling she shouldn’t trust this man. Something was... off. “Thanks,” she said—if something was off, she should stay polite. She was alone right now, and this was Hell. How was she to know what sort of rapist or murderer she was talking to?

”Are you new down here?” He asked.

She glanced around—this wasn’t home, and this wasn’t Heaven. “Ya could say that.”

“What’s your name, darlin’?” He asked, still in the limo.

”...Miele,” she said.

He brought his cigar back to his grinning mouth. “And what’s a sweet little thing like you doin’ in Hell, honey?”

”Please don’t call me that,” she replied. “Just... Miele. Or... Molly, people call me that too.” She glanced around—the streets were empty, all of a sudden.

”That doesn’t answer my question.”

She shrugged. “I chose ta be down here,” she said.

”Did you now?”

”Yeah,” she said, and then realized she shouldn’t tell this stranger too much about herself, so she continued. “Don’t ya think Heaven would be borin’, if everyone ya knew an’ loved is down here?”

The man hummed in thought. “Couldn’t you find someone in Heaven to know and love?”

”No,” she said. “‘Cause it’s jam packed with rich people who’ve neva worked a day in their lives, who think they’re good, but are just... average. Average and borin’—‘parently, your life is borin’ without a li’l bit of sin, an’ ya stick out like a sore thumb ‘cause ya by yaself, with a Brooklynn accent and a pinstripe suit, an’ everyone knows ya don’t belong up there, but there’s no way someone up there could belong down here, so they don’t know what ta do with ya.”

The man looked at her for a long moment. “...You’ve thought really hard about Heaven and Hell for someone so... _fresh._ ”

She was not fresh. She’d been dead for awhile, she was just... new down here. “I studied philosophy,” she lied.

Somehow, this seemed to clear everything up. “Are you going somewhere, honey? I’d love to give you a ride.”

Well, that set off alarm bells. “I don’t even know ya name,” she said.

”Valentino,” the man said. “I’m an Overlord down here. You know what that is, don’t you, darlin’?”

Valentino. It was a fitting name, since, by the looks of it, every last inch of the interior of his limo was covered in hearts and shit, like he robbed the seasonal section of a grocery store in February. “I can guess,” she said—probably not anyone she’d want to piss off, so she’d continue to be polite and firm, she guessed. Her family couldn’t save her right now. They didn’t know where she was, probably assumed she was in Heaven or something.

...They had looked for her, right? Enough to draw that conclusion?

”I don’t make a habit of steppin’ into stranga’s pimpmobiles,” she said, gesturing to the limo—and then something clicked.

...This was really a pimpmobile, wasn’t it? And this stranger was a pimp. Yeah, she did not want to get into his car. You didn’t get into pimps’ cars—this was not a man with an over the top aesthetic, this was a _pimp_.

”Do you know that... demon?” She asked. “The one on those billboards? Everyone keeps mistakin’ me for... him.”

A dry smile. “He’s an employee,” Valentino said. “He works as an... _adult_ entertainer.” She had questions, but she kept them to herself. “...Least, he did—he’s not employed right now.”

”Oh,” she said.

”A recent thing,” he said. “More of a _break_ than anything, he’ll be comin’ back soon enough.”

She nodded. “...So... Everyone thinks I’m a hooker?”

”Afraid so, babygirl.” And he was still looking at her like she was one. She felt _gross._ “Take it in stride—they’re only botherin’ you because they know you’re out of their price range.”

...That didn’t make her feel _that_ much better.

She took a step away from the window. “Thank ya, Mista Valentino, but I betta get goin’—I got family down here I wanna find.”

”You need any help, sugar?” Of course not. Not from him—not from a _pimp._ “Hell can be overwhelming for new souls down here—you walk these streets like you own them now, I’ve never seen a new sinner look so calm down here, but demons know a fresh one when they see one. You don’t want anyone takin’ _advantage_ of you.”

She flashed a smile—no. She _didn’t_. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” she said. “I can take care of myself, really—I used ta live in New York.” She took another step away from the car. “Thanks, though, Mista.”

He was still smiling, looking her over like a product he was considering trying to buy, or a piece of meat he was figuring out where to cut. If this man touched her, she’d skip the polite pleasantries. He clicked his tongue. “That’s a shame—you be careful down here, pretty girl. Hell’s dangerous at night.”

The window rolled back up—she took another step away, and the car rolled away.

Nothing had happened—that whole exchange had gone fine, she was absolutely fine.

 _Hell’s dangerous at night._ She laughed—did he think she didn’t know that? The funny thing was what didn’t know was that she was dangerous.

With the limo gone, the street seemed to be filling up some with demons. Drug dealers and prostitutes took their places at corners. After all that, she found herself thinking back to home in New York—she wondered what had ever happened to it. Maybe her Pops’ mansion was still standing. Maybe Ian had had children with Cecilia, and the Acciai line continued on in the world of the living.

Hell was large enough to make her feel small as she continued on her way—she was on a mission, but she felt aimless as she walked. She didn’t know where she was going.

But she knew her family was down here—and damnit, she was gonna find them.


	3. Chapter 3

The car pulled to a stop right in front of him. Angel had to duck down so his face was actually seen, instead of just his fake tits. “Hey, there,” he greeted, tugged his skirt down a bit with one of his hands. “See somethin’ ya like?”

Travis was at the wheel—great, Angel might get good money out of this, he played his cards right, but his expression faltered. “...You got a black eye,” he said.

Fuck. He did. Also, his hand was still bleeding and his knuckles were bruised. “Got in a fight,” he said. “With another hooker on this corner—she tried to steal it from me, but I had a good feelin’ ‘bout this corner.” He leaned in farther. “You gonna make all these bruises worth it, though, aren’tchya?” He moved a hand to his neckline, tugged it down just a little bit to show off more... well, not exactly, skin, but... fur? Yeah. That was kind of hot. “Gonna put me to work for bein’ a mouthy little bitch last time ya saw me? Bet ya could find some good uses for my mouth, bet you could really teach me a fuckin’ lesson for bein’ such a _slut._ ”

Travis somehow didn’t look turned on at all. “...Have you been... crying...?”

”Ya got me,” he lied. “I just got done gettin’ some _really_ good dick, it was so fuckin’ _good._ Bastard didn’t let me cum, though—you’re gonna be nicer to me than that, though, right? You’re gonna let me touch my cock while I’m suckin’ yours, right? And you’re gonna make me beg for hours and hours while you fuck me, and stroke me off when you’re all done and I’m good and used up.”

”...You’re detoxing,” he said.

”Shit.”

They stared at each other for a minute—Angel had put him in the awkward position of either picking up a detoxing hooker covered in bruises that might be on the verge of tears or just kinda... driving off and away from whatever the fuck had happened here.

They continued to stare. “Five hundred an hour,” he said. “I’ll give ya a discount.” He winked.

Travis looked conflicted, briefly—maybe because Angel had definitely been in a fight, and he had never hooked up with Angel when he wasn’t at his absolute _best_ (when it came to looks anyway), or maybe he was thinking about his wife for a second. Either way, he popped the door open for him and he slid in.

The leather of the seat was cool against his legs as he sat down. He had gone with a short skirt and a thong that was barely there with his usual top, but no amount of smoothing his clothes and fixing his hair had him looking any less disheveled. He just needed some drug money. That was all.

He rested a hand on Travis’ thigh. “Ya takin’ me home with ya?” He asked.

”No,” he said. “My wife’s at home—but I can get us a room at a motel.”

”Sounds good to me, Daddy.” He licked his teeth. “I need some _good,_ hard dick.” From a guy that wasn’t a hundred percent of a jackass. Travis was only ninety percent of a jackass. It was a step up. “Don’t be gentle with me, okay? I want ya to fuck me like ya _hate me_.”

He had been preoccupied, so he hadn’t heard the doors of the hotel open or close. Arackniss had two arms crossed over his body to clutch at the other’s sides arms, a phone lifted up to the side of his head. “Yeah, it, uh... didn’t go so well.”

His voice was on the other line, calming him down, if it weren’t for the worlds riling him up. _“You cut yourself off again,_ ” he said.

He wished he had! “No!” He snapped. “I... I told him, he just didn’t... He didn’t...” His voice cracked—fucking stupid. It was fucking stupid.

 _“Oh._ ” Something changed in his tone, something like regret—the two weren’t the type to just admit their faults, but over the phone, the two of them could maybe kind of acknowledge that he had been wrong to assume Arackniss had talked himself out of it again, that he had done it like he said. _“Darling, are you alright? Tell me what happened.”_

Darling. This man called him _darling,_ in that same sort of tone his parents called each other _mio amore_ back and forth, back and forth... And he was alright with it, thrilled about it, because he knew that was what was thrumming in his chest along the warmth and adoration he made him feel—thrill.

“Oh, god...” It had been stupid. It had been stupid. “...It was... wrong of me to think he’d just...” He trailed off. “...Fuck, I messed up.”

A voice sounded from behind him. “Um...”

He turned around quickly—someone had heard, _someone had heard—_

Charlie was standing, back pressed against the doors of the hotel, watching him and waiting politely.

”Shit,” he said. “I gotta go.”

 _“Oh._ ” Disappointment. What kind of cruel bastard felt happy to hear someone they loved so much sound so upset that they had to cut the conversation short? Him, apparently. _“...Will you call me back, when you get the chance to?”_

God, yes. He’d find a chance to. “Yeah, can do.” He kept his tone casual, keeping that weird excitement of hearing his voice again later inside his chest where it chased the burn of guilt and throb of longing away. He hung up, and turned to Charlie to give her his full attention.

Suddenly, he wasn’t sure what he had said aloud and what it could possibly sound like, so he jumped to the worse conclusion—not only had he said something that confirmed, without a doubt, Arackniss was gay like his brother, but the person who knew that now was violently homophobic, about to tell the rest of his family, and he had about twenty four hours before he was killed for being a fucking queer, and not only that, being disowned by the rest of his family.

”Whatever the fuck you think you just heard,” he hissed. “Forget about it—you didn’t hear _jack shit._ ”

”I didn’t,” Charlie said. She had a thumb in one of her pockets, looking at him carefully. “...I don’t know what you and Angel were fighting about, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it with me. I was hoping you could fill me in.”

He scoffed and pushed the phone back into his pocket—he felt worse now. His boyfriend had made it better, briefly, but now, all that hatred and anger was back tenfold. “The fuck you wanna know?” He asked.

Charlie blinked at him. “Well, I heard some things—Angel was... blaming something on you.” He felt cold. “...He said it was your fault?”

“He... He was talking about when Pops found out,” he said. “When he was a queer.”

”Oh,” Charlie said. “...He blames you for that?”

He crossed his arms over his chest—yeah. He did. He wasn’t sure how much he blamed him for it. “...How much else did you hear?”

”Basically just that,” she said. “Husk mentioned a few things, but—“

Husk. The bartender. He overheard. He knew. In the moment, Arackniss had been too focused on clearing it up with Angel Dust and fixing all that shit between them, he had forgotten, but...

His expression darkened. “I’ll kill that bartender.”

Charlie looked alarmed. “No, don’t do that,” she said. “You don’t need to worry about Husk—plus, Alastor _will_ kill you.”

”That’s better than what the fuck would happen to me if my family found out I was a fuckin’ queer!” He hissed.

”No,” Charlie said—shit. Did he just tell Charlie too? Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck his (after)life. “Don’t worry about it—I promise, anything you say in the hotel, will _stay_ in the hotel.”

”How the fuck can you be so sure?” He asked. “Do you have any idea what...”

...He didn’t want to think about it—and it was that that made him think only about it.

”Arackniss, I swear—my lips are sealed about this. Everyone’s is, promise.”

He shouldn’t believe her. Too much went into simply trusting her, taking her word as it was—but at the end of the day, it didn’t mean anything. Their hotel probably had cameras or something. Husk could talk, if Arackniss couldn’t kill him, and he couldn’t hurt Charlie, with her being the heir to the throne, princess of Hell and all—he imagined killing Charlie would be difficult, and not only would it make his life a living Hell, it just felt too... It was a line he wouldn’t cross—Charlie had been nice to him, he supposed.

...She acted too much like Molly.

He sighed. “It was stupid o’ me to come here,” he said. “Angel ain’t wrong, y’know.”

Charlie frowned and took a step forward, looking closer at his face. He could already feel the bruises on his skin, one of his eyes was swollen half shut. “You can come back inside for a minute,” she said. “We have some ice packs in the freezer.”

He glanced up at the sign of the hotel. “You really think Angel’d be alright with you bringin’ me back in after all that?”

”You’re a guest by now,” Charlie said. “Not necessarily a patron, but... I’ll grab the first aid—he’s upset, he needs time to cool down, that’s all.”

She blinked down at him—it was stupid he had come here, and even stupider he was going back inside.

No one in the lobby questioned it—mostly because Husk wasn’t there, and Vaggie had disappeared, and Alastor seemed to be consoling a sad Niffty by the bar, _Just let him stew in his anger, my dear—I’ll make him give you a proper apology the next time he comes out of his room, for treating you so rudely._

Charlie lead him to the kitchen and opened up the freezer, pulling out an ice pack and wrapping it in a towel before she gave it to him. He looked it over a moment, before deciding that putting corrosive poison on an ice pack (that she just touched) was an unlikely (and frankly lame) way to off someone and pressed it against his eye. “...Thanks,” he said.

”Your welcome.” She moved some of her hair over her shoulder. “So, um... can you tell me what all that was about in the lobby?”

He waited a moment. “...Damnit, I never shoulda let Pent talk me into this,” he muttered.

“Pent? ...Wait, you mean, um... Sir Pentious, right? Cherri mentioned something about him, when she had you in that alley...”

He sighed and leaned up against the counter. “You can’t say a word ‘bout this to anyone,” he said. Not a question—if she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, he’d leave and he’d never come back and he’d hope something bad would happen to her, since he couldn’t kill her himself.

”I won’t,” she promised.

”...I’ve been datin’ him for awhile,” he murmured. “...Pretty nice guy. Good with weapons. He uh, was... more or less fine with the fact that we’d never be public, ‘cause o’ my family, but uh... He... He doesn’t like Angel a whole lot, but he... He somehow knew that I wanted to...” He trailed off—this was a lot to go into. He didn’t want to go into this.

You didn’t tell people this much about yourself, not unless you wanted it used against you later.

But Pentious had somehow known. And he had cared—his judgement towards Angel wasn’t because he was gay or anything, but because he had met Angel and he had pissed him off. And even though Pentious still didn’t like Angel, he seemed more than fine with Arackniss being his brother, with the possibility of needing to be at least civil with him, because of their relationship.

And he was so gentle. He tried so, so hard to act evil, but goddamn, that man had a soft spot for him—too much of a fucking gentleman to be anything less than respectful and considerate, all of the time. He wasn’t harmless though, he had that going for him.

...It had taken them fourteen years of knowing each other. The first nine had just been them being... friendly. Pentious was kind, for a demon anyway, good way to get weapons for the family, Pops knew him, liked him fine, though it had only been business transactions. And then after that nine, they had evolved into flirting, sort of.

Weird flirting. It was weirdly subtle, because Arackniss was trying to deny it, to pretend he didn’t feel the weird chemistry between them—was it weird in general, or did he only think it weird because they were both men? It was hard to tell. But Pentious had smiled every time Arackniss mentioned something about enjoying his company, how he usually didn’t think much of... _associates_ really, but that Pentious was the only guy he’d, hypothetically, want to go have a drink with instead of focusing only on weapons, on business.

It had taken them fourteen years to have their first kiss—and then Arackniss had tried to pretend it never happened. For a decade there, he had been cold, distant, and he had been a real asshole, kissing Pentious and then acting like it never happened until a decade later where they both were hanging out, and got drunk, and Pentious asked about that one night all those years ago.

 _I... didn’t imagine it, did I_? All those eyes on him, Arackniss wasn’t sure where to look, because it was like, no matter where he looked, he was still meeting Pentious’ eyes, and he couldn’t...

But he hadn’t imagined it.

Still took them forever to actually have a relationship. A relationship confined solely behind doors, where no one could see them, but a relationship—and Pentious had never held how fucking flighty Arackniss was with it all against him. He forgave him for the hot and cold attitude, he waited patiently for Arackniss to come around, and it always made him want more and more...

He was a _sap_ for that man. “When he... heard I was tryin’ to... mend some bridges between me and Angel, he... suggested I tell him. That we were...” He rubbed the back of his neck—he couldn’t believe he was talking about this. Why was he talking about this? “...together.

”I think that bastard just wanted to hear me say it. Can’t really tell anyone ‘bout us, I don’t blame him—probably felt like I was hidin’ him, hidin’ our relationship, and... I guess I am. I don’t blame him for bein’ frustrated sometimes, but I... I liked the idea. Of bondin’ with Angel, I guess. Thought it’d be nice for both of us, but, um... He didn’t take the news very well.”

Charlie looked at him—her expression was unreadable. He wasn’t sure what he expected, what he even wanted from all this—he could leave now, seek out Pentious for comfort and fall into his embrace for a little while before he needed to return home, back to his family.

”I...I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “That sounds horrible.”

”Can’t blame him too much,” he sighed. He wanted to, it’d be easy if he could go back to hating ~~Anthony~~ Angel all over again. “I mean, Angel got his ass thrown out for bein’ a fuckin’ queer. You have any idea what my Pops would do to him, he fuckin’ saw him walking around, lookin’ like a ten cent whore in a fuckin’ miniskirt on this side o’ the Pentagram? He’d snap each and every limb off of his body and fuck up his other eye—and that’d be getting off _easy._ ”

Charlie’s expression became sympathetic. “It’s wrong,” she said. “That you have to hide this from your family—because they’d be violent about it.”

He would have rolled his eyes, but he just shifted the ice pack on his eye again. “You don’t get it—it’s not just my father. Queers don’t got a fuckin’ place in the mafia, doll—I know Angel hates Pops for disownin’ him, and I get it, I don’t blame him, but that’s letting him off easy. Course, Angel was too young to remember Matteo, so...” He cleared his throat. “...Pops disowned him, but it was a step up from shootin’ him in the head or somethin’. Our father can be a real jackass, Princess, but he’d never wanna kill one o’ his kids, even Angel.”

”You just said he’d hurt Angel,” she said.

”Yeah,” he said. “If he still thought of Tony... _Angel_ as his kid, if he was still connected at all to the family, he’d probably be tryin’ to beat the gay straight outta him. It’d be his job as a parent, keepin’ him outta trouble and any sorta danger that bein’ a queer’d give him... And he thinks they’re disgusting, that too.”

Charlie thought for a moment. “...So... If your father... knew that you were seeing a man, he’d beat you, disown you, or have you killed?”

Arackniss looked at her flatly for a minute—she still wasn’t getting it. “You ever head of uh... John D’Amato? He was alive in the... nineties? I think it was? Actin’ boss in North Jersey or somethin’—yeah, he got fuckin’ offed once it was suspected he was a queer. Thought he was... swinging or some shit, I guess—that’s how serious bein’ a fuckin’ queer in the mafia is. No one’s gonna take a gay mobster seriously. No one—like, I wanna have a relationship with Angel and all, but...” He trailed off. That was just gonna sound fucking rude, and Charlie would tell him, and then he’d be even more pissed at him. “...It’s a respect thing—no one’s gonna respect a gay mobster. So the best course of action for my family would... be to disown me. Or off me. I dunno, depends how my father’d hear about it, maybe he regrets not killin’ Anthony.”

”So... that’s it?” Charlie asked. She was looking at him, horrified. “You just... don’t tell a soul, and keep your head down so you don’t get _murdered_ , all because you fell in love with a man?”

”Yeah, just about it.”

And she was still staring. “Because... your family wants to keep up it’s image, as a tough, _straight_ crime family?”

”Yeah, sure.”

”...What the fuck.”

Arackniss wasn’t sure how to defend his family, or if he even really wanted to—maybe a part of him had switched from thinking he was fucked up to have feelings for another man, to thinking it was fucked up his family would have him thinking there’s something wrong with him—it was a strange mishmash of emotions building up in his chest and rising into his skull. “Look, when... When Angel calms down, can you just tell him that I’m sorry? About... everythin’? ...Also tell him that if he ever tries to punch me again, I’ll kick his ass, but... mostly that I’m sorry. I... I ain’t proud o’ what happened back in the forties between me and him... or him and the rest of the family.”

Charlie looked at him and nodded firmly. “I’ll tell him. I’m... sorry that the first person you came out to reacted with violence.”

He laughed and pulled the ice pack away from his eye. “Honestly? I expected _worse_.”

He was off his game tonight. Maybe it was because he was detoxing, maybe it was because he got in a fistfight with his brother, and maybe it was because Travis put his hands on his hips and the touch seemed to snatch the breath straight out of his lungs.

...He was back in the limo. Valentino was looming over him, hands on his hips, still holding one of his cherry-fucking-scented cigars, those lenses on his stupid fucking glasses gleaming in the dark—

No. No. He was doing his job, he didn’t work for Valentino away.

”Fuck yeah,” he said to Travis, unbuttoning his top all the way, exposing his chest to his client ( _Valentino’s hands yanking it open, one of the buttons flying off, bouncing off the window to roll away_ ) _. “_ Fuck me—Fuck me, _please..._ ”

( ** _Pleasepleasepleasestop_** _, trying not to cry or moan, because it was all the same to Val, just repeating in his head, like a prayer, a mantra, please, please, **please,** like Valentino would change his mind balls deep inside him.)_

He choked on a moan(?) when Travis thrusted inside him, fingers curled around his hips. Another hard thrust—it felt _good_. Travis was average when it came to sex, but average was far from bad.

( _Valentino looming over him still, pressing his face down. **So quiet for me, Angel Cakes—Daddy’s gonna make you scream, you don’t start behaving. Hold still.** )_

”Uhhhhh, _yes,”_ he hissed out—Travis moaned in his ear. “Mm, _fuck,_ so good...”

_(Valentino pushed the lit end of his cigar into his lower back. He cried out, tried to jerk away, but Valentino had no intentions of letting him go—he just wanted to hear him. He knew how to get Angel to make noise—and he wanted Angel to make noise.)_

Travis went faster. “You... okay, hot stuff?” He moved his hands like he was going to let go—Travis was a dickwad, he only cared about getting off, so Angel didn’t know why he was acting like he was going to stop.

”Keep going,” he said. “I can take it, Daddy.”

”Uh...” Travis looked at him. His makeup looked like shit, those bruises were obvious, even beneath his fur, and from this angle, he might have been able to see the small, circular burn on his lower back. “...okay.”

_(And Valentino always got what he wanted.)_

He picked up speed for a moment. ANgel wasn’t sure if he shut his eyes or not, but were the lights flickering? One minute, they were the ugly ass fluorescents of the motel room he was being fucked in, and then he was in the limo—

 ** _(So pretty when you cry. Cry louder for me. I wanna watch your shoulders shake, Angel Cakes. So pretty..._** _Hands tightening on his hips even more, for sure going to leave bruises that’d take the better half of a week to heal, at_ best _because Val was a sadistic bastard. **If you want me to stop so bad, why do you look so pretty when you beg, Angie?** **)**_

He was gonna be sick—was he with a client still or was he back in that fucking limo?

 _(A pair of his hands holding a pair of his wrists hard, threatening to break his fucking scaphoid and lunate all fucking over again, Angel’s second pair clawing at the floor. **Fuckin’ delicious like this, Angel. Such a good boy for me**_ —)

He didn’t know what happened. He shoved Travis (Valentino? No, he’d... he’d never shove Valentino away, and he’d never get away with it) and sat up, apparently trying to get away from him, but he ended up falling right off the bed and onto the floor, on his back.

But it felt more like he had just randomly fallen out of the bed and onto his back. All of a sudden, he was staring at the ceiling, gasping for breath—like he had woken up from a nightmare or got back from a marathon.

And he laid there. On the floor. Missing almost all of his clothes. Panting and on the verge of tears.

Travis looked more confused than anything. “...This isn’t like, role play or anything... right?”

”No,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “...Uh...” He sat up.

Reality was consuming him—he was about to have a panic attack in a shitty motel. In front of a client. Over a thing that happened a few days ago.

Valentino had done _worse_ to him—it was just a fuck. A fuck Angel hadn’t wanted, but it wasn’t even a particularly rough thing. That cigar burn hadn’t hurt that much. Val had barely even hit him. And Angel was acting like he had pulled a knife on him.

He moaned and buried his face in a pair of his hands. Travis was still watching him—but he very obviously wasn’t getting off on it, which was fine, since Angel wasn’t either. He had ditched the hotel, left his precious babies all alone in his room and gone to get a quick fuck for drug money—she he could have a panic attack on the floor of a shitty motel room.

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself—if he burst into tears he’d just keel fucking over. There was no coming back from that. When he didn’t think he was in immediate danger of crying, he swallowed and looked up at Travis. “Sorry. Rough night.”

”...Yeah,” he said. “...I figured.”

”...I’m a fuckin’ wreck,” he said.

”Yeah,” he responded. “...Drugs will do that to you.”

He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “You use?”

”Used to,” he admitted. “I uh... was super into angel dust down here, funny enough. Got clean, though, a while back...”

Okay, this was weird. He didn’t know who this was weirder for—him, or the guy who bought a detoxing, crying hooker’s services. “I should, uh... go,” he said.

Despite the fact that Travis definitely did not get his money’s worth, he went ahead and gave Angel two hundred dollars anyway—maybe he felt that bad for him, maybe Travis wasn’t that much of an asshole, or maybe the whole exchange was so fucking awkward, he thought two hundred dollars was worth it, if it got Angel out of his hair.

So, he went to a vending machine and bought heroin.

Because he was a heroin hooker now. On top of PCP. He was a heroin hooker and a PCP prostitute.

Fuck, he hated himself.

It was more than easy to sneak back into the hotel though a window. He didn’t think anyone caught him or even noticed he was gone. His pigs were asleep—he wanted to pet them, but he didn’t want to wake them, os he figured he’d wait until later.

He willed himself to forget about how _fucking embarrassing_ that was, because it was fucking humiliating (Travis would probably not be buying his services again anytime soon), and grabbed one of those fucking syringes. He hated this, he hated himself, but drugs had been his coping method of choice for years—maybe it’d help now.

The door creaked open. “Angel?” A voice called.

Fuck. The lights were still off, they must have thought he was asleep—fuck, _shit_ —

Vaggie stepped in and looked at him—light from the hallway seeped in and illuminated enough to show that what he was doing was not good, if the syringe in his hand was enough to go off of. He thought Vaggie would go off, but instead she just said, “Oh.”

...Oh. As in, _Oh, of course you’re doing drugs,_ or as in, _Oh, god, I’m telling Charlie so we can shame you together for defaulting to the one thing that’s always made you happy to cope with how shitty your afterlife is now,_ or...

Fuck, _Oh_ could mean anything.

They stared at each other a minute. “...I didn’t know you were doing heroin,” Vaggie said.

”Valentino got me addicted,” he said—it was his fault it started.

But it was Angel’s fault it continued, he supposed.

Vaggie blinked—why wasn’t she angry? She should be angry right now, right?

But she just looked at him and stepped out of the room.

He bet she was going to tell Charlie. They’d kick him out of the hotel—because he was stupid and back on drugs and irredeemable. They’d find someone else, someone better, and...

He supposed he could always go crawling back to Valentino.

Oh, god that made him sick—he was not doing that.

The door opened again, Vaggie stepped back in and shut the door behind her, and stood there a moment, her back to it and her eyes on him. Finally she spoke again, “If... you’re gonna use, then... I want to make sure you’re doing it safely.”

He glanced up at her. “You ever even used drugs?” He asked, and then remembered. “...Oh. Uh...”

She took a step forward. “My girlfriend got an entire vein to collapse in her arm, back in El Salvador—needle drugs can be... dangerous. And it’s easy to overdose.”

”And that’d be _terrible_ ,” he responded. Vaggie came even closer and sat on the edge of the mattress, expression grim.

”It would be,” she said. She still wasn’t angry.

She took the syringe out of his hand—he expected her to be all, _Psyche!_ and take his drugs and leave, but instead she pulled the cap off the needle. “The best way,” she said, slowly. “To do this is to have a tourniquet—something to tie on your arm.”

”Why?”

”Uh, something to do with blood flow—I don’t remember exactly, my memory’s kind of foggy.” She grabbed a belt from the floor, grabbed one of his arms and tightened it until Angel thought he was gonna have to complain about just how tight it was. “And you need to avoid using the same injection sites—I learned how to inject with my non dominant hand, so none of my veins collapsed or anything.”

”What the hell even is a collapsed vein?” Angel asked.

”Nothing good,” Vaggie said, sternly. She looked at his arm flatly. “I can’t even find any of your veins,” she said.

”Yeah,” he said, glanced down at his white fur. “But it covers up track marks.”

Vaggie nodded and pushed the needle in slowly. “My hands used to shake like crazy when I did this,” she said. “When it was on myself. I kept thinking I’d manage to kill myself or something. I thought I’d get used to it, but I never did.” Despite that, her movements were even. She pulled the plunger back a little—a small amount of pink blood entered the syringe. “...Alright, that means I found a vein—I think. Pretty sure, anyway.” The same thing happened when Valentino did it to him, so it was... probably right? “But um, if you ever do something like this, and you get way more blood than this, that means you Probably did something wrong. I want to say you might have caught an artery, but I don’t know how accurate that is, just... if anything goes wrong, you can come to me or Charlie, okay?” That tie on his arm still hurt.

She tugged it off and pushed the plunger down. Her face was still blank—he was doing drugs in front of her, and she wasn’t mad. “Did you and Charlie swap bodies or somethin’?”

”No,” Vaggie said. “Charlie can’t stand needles. She’d pass out by now.” Somehow, that did sound like Charlie. “Using alone’s dangerous.”

That was a shit reason, but he didn’t _care_ , he was _high._

”You’re not...” He cleared his throat, curled his fingers into the covers of his bed. “You’re not gonna ask where I got the money for drugs?”

”...I can guess,” Vaggie said.

”...I cried in front of a client.”

”Really?”

”It was fuckin’ embarrassin’,” he said. “I thought I could make a quick buck—but I kept thinkin’ ‘bout...” He didn’t even want to say it. It was stupid, but with the way he trailed off and the way Vagge’s gaze softened, he got the feeling she already knew. “And burst into tears. In front o’ him. And fell on the floor, nearly hypervenilatin’.”

”That sounds horrible,” she said. “...I once threw up in front of one.”

He looked at her. “You did?”

”I was going through a short withdrawal,” she said, looked over the belt in her arms so she didn’t meet his eyes. “And whenever I went through withdrawals, I was nauseous and really hungry, I ate like, six donuts before meeting up with a client, and...” She looked ready to be sick just remembering it. “...I don’t want to go too much into detail, but um... He hit my gag reflex dead on. And I threw up in front of him, right onto his ugly shag carpet.”

Angel snorted. “Was it ugly before or after you threw up on it?”

”Yeah,” she responded.

Angel might have been nodding off? He didn’t know why. He wasn’t usually this relaxed around Vaggie, but also, Vaggie didn’t stick needles into his arms. “How’d you get hooked on heroin?” She asked.

He groaned. “...Ya remember when... Val had me back at the studio?” She nodded. He shut his eyes because he didn’t think he could bear to look at her expression anymore than that. “...He uh... tied me down on a bed for awhile. And asked me how long I had been clean.”

He couldn’t leave it there—he hadn’t wanted it. He didn’t want Vaggie to think he had just... given up, that wasn’t what it was. “I-I shouldn’t have told him, but he... he always knows when I’m lyin’ to him. I told him I didn’t want it, but I... I couldn’t stop him.

”Wasn’t even PCP. He just wanted to make sure I wasn’t clean. But um... later, he gave me another dose, bent me over the vanity in my dressing room and made me do a line, before a shoot.” He sniffed and looked at her again, and something about her expression had him feeling like he needed to defend himself. “I tried not to—I told him I wasn’t goin’ to, but he... He wouldn’t let go. And he wouldn’t have stopped either, ‘til I did it.”

Vaggie was still looking at him. “Fuck, can ya at least say somethin’? I’mma just keep talkin’ if ya don’t, and we both know I’m gonna piss you off.”

”I’m sorry.” She reached into her pocket and fished out a bandaid, pressed it on his arm gently. “I’m not sure how much it helps, but... Charlie and I’d like you to know you’re safe at the hotel. Valentino can’t hurt you here.”

”He’s an overlord, toots.” He looked down at the bandaid on his arm—Charlie must have bought them, because they had rainbows and kittens on them, smiling up at the two of them. “He can do a lotta shit down here.”

”Alright.” She grasped his shoulder gently, eyes focused on his. “But Valentino _won’t_ hurt you here.”

It was stupid, it was _so fucking stupid,_ but just the idea of someone promising him safety made him feel some what better after the shitty night he’d been having. “...Did ya really meet with him to discuss a deal?” He asked. “As a distraction?”

”Yeah,” she said. “...It was a stupid idea, but it worked.”

”...Babe, he doesn’t... He’s not like Alastor.” He pushed himself up, made himself sit up straighter. “You can’t just turn down deals from him.”

”But I did,” Vaggie said, like she had never felt fear before in her afterlife.

”Vaggie, he will _find you_ —if ya agree to _discuss_ contracts with him, ya’ve already agreed to eventually signin’ one o’ his contracts. He’ll track ya down, corner ya, and he’ll make ya sign one. He won’t stop until he gets one. The only thing that might stop him, is if someone else were to already own your soul, but ya can’t lie about that shit—he fuckin’ knows. Nothin’ stops him.”

”Sounds like a grade A douchebag.”

”He _is_ a grade A douchebag.” He slumped back. “He’s like, that douchebag who hits on ya at a club, and continues to follow ya around the entire night until ya agree to dance with him and then probably spends it grindin’ on ya, only on fuckin’ steroids. And crack.” ...He didn’t think he was actually on crack or steroids, but what the fuck did he know?

”I’ve dealt with plenty of douchebags before,” Vaggie said. “Douchebags are everywhere—El Salvador, museums, clubs, Hell.”

”Okay, but on crack and steroids?”

Vaggie said, “I deal with you all the time,” and then seemed to think that was a bit harsh, so followed it up with, “You don’t need to worry about me, Angel—it’s not like he can magic my wrist into moving to get me to sign.”

He looked at her flatly. “He can be convincin’—he’s charmin’ like that, or... somethin’.”

”No,” Vaggie said. “Assholes like him prey on the weak—but it’s Hell and you can’t show that you’re weak, so he never knows how weak someone is when they’re talking with him, so he jumps on whatever weakness he can find. He’ll tear someone down, so he can build them right back up, and try and make them forget he was the reason they were down in the first place—and that’s not charm. That’s... manipulative, and cruel, and wrong—and I won’t fall for it.”

He wanted to believe that. He wouldn’t wish a contract with Valentino on his worse enemy. “A lotta people’ve said that, Vaggie.”

”Yeah, well... There’s not really anything he can offer me that’d ever tempt me,” she said. “Just about everyone I’ve ever really cared about is in this hotel. I’m content right now—he can’t offer me drugs, I don’t want sex, I don’t want fame. All I want is to help the hotel, and to help my girlfriend and see her happy. That’s it.”

”I wouldn’t put it past him to threaten,” he said. “If he’s got nothin’ to offer ya, he’d twist your arm into it.”

”He can break my arm for all I care—I’m never getting back into sex work. There’s nothing he could do to convince you—your _pimp_ doesn’t scare me.” Well, he scared him! “...I’m not worried,” she said. “With any luck, I’ll never be seeing him again—it’s not like you’re gonna sign a contract with him again.”

”Not due to his lack of tryin’.” His tone was dry.

”...Has he been texting you?” Vaggie asked.

As if on cue, his phone vibrated. He looked at the screen—Valentino had wanted him to know that _If heroin keeps you nice and skinny, I might have to start giving you some with your lines, Angel Cakes. I want to be able to count your ribs next time I see you, baby ❤️_

He showed the screen to her in response.

Vaggie met his eyes again. “He won’t hurt you here, okay, Angel? Not in this hotel. You are not under his contract. You are not his property. Just looking at this text makes me want to drag you to the kitchen and give you enough _nuegados_ to suffocate your problems.”

”I have no idea what those are,” he said.

”Yeah, I know—point is...” She got to her feet, still holding the syringe. “...You’re safe. Alright? From... your family, from Valentino, from Exterminators. You are perfectly safe here.”

He glanced at the syringe in her hand. “...Thought I’d only be safe in the hotel if I stop usin’.”

”Using’s dangerous,” she said, voice still stern—but still not angry. “...If we’re gonna keep you safe at the hotel, it’ll include from stupid decisions like... using heroin in your bedroom unsupervised.” She waited a minute. “...We’re downstairs if you need us.”

Without another word, she left the room. Angel looked at the stupid, childish bandaid on his arm—his head throbbed.

Today was _shit._ His conversation with Vaggie had drawn both of his pigs out of their sleep, he noticed as they waddled over to him. God, he needed to pet his pigs.

He lifted them onto the mattress and laid down. The situated themselves on his chest and stomach, where he could easily pet them.

...He _was_ safe at the hotel. He decided to focus on that, instead of his fight with his brother, and his complicated feelings about him coming out to him, and his reaction to it. Sleep came for him, a brief break away from reality.

And when he woke up seven hours later, shaking and nauseous and aching, he almost remembered that.

When she heard the door to the kitchen creak open, she assumed it was Niffty asking if she needed help, wanting to eye around the clean kitchen, worried Vaggie might put a speck of dirt on those bleached floors, the clean counters, so she just kept beating the egg whites, earphones blasting enough punk rock that’d make her go deaf—if she was human.

One of the perks of being dead was, apparently, she could listen to her music loud.

A hand fell on her shoulder.

She jumped a foot in the air. “Shit!” She yanked her earphones out, and they dangled on her shoulders as she whipped around to look at Charlie.

...It was just Charlie.

She dropped the whisk in the bowl she was holding and rested a hand over her chest like she was clutching at her pearls. “Goddamnit, Charlie,” she breathed—her earphones were still blasting her music, as the screaming lyrics died down to shift to a mournful, somber guitar. “You scared me half to death.” Her second death, anyway.

Charlie cracked a gentle smile. “Sorry, Vags.”

She set the bowl down on the counter, wiped her hands on her skirt, and got ready to say something, but Charlie beat her to it. “Is there a... reason you’re cooking?”

She shrugged weakly. “Trying to find... something that might be a healthy outlet—I got something on my mind.”

Charlie glanced at the bowl. “What are you making?” She asked.

” _Marquesote,”_ she answered. “It’s uh... just a really simple cake, like, three ingredients. Really tedious. I kind of hate this, I’m not feeling any better.”

”Oh,” Charlie said. “...Do you want to talk about it, _mi encantador?_ ”

She felt a smile pull across her face. “Your Spanish is coming along.”

”It is?” She asked. She stepped closer and put a hand on her waist, another hand lacing with her fingers. “... _Te quiero. Tú puedes decirme cualquier... cosa?”_ A pause. “...That wasn’t supposed to be a question. Uh—you wanna talk about it?”

Her music was still playing. “...I think we’re going about this wrong.”

”What do you mean?” She squeezed her hand—Vaggie never would have guessed she’d find holding hands with someone _this_ romantic.

She took a deep breath, because she needed to not sound stupid—Charlie’s never tell her she sounded stupid, but Vaggie swore, sometimes she was so caught up in her thoughts, what she was saying got all... tangled up, caught up in some other thought she hadn’t meant to say. “...Okay, first of all, I want to make it clear that I’m... I’m glad you decided you wanted to do the hotel. I’m glad I get to help you with this—and I’m proud of how far we’ve come.”

”But...?”

She swallowed—she didn’t like criticizing her girlfriend. Charlie was the sweetest, kindest person she had ever met—just about everything about her drove Vaggie crazy. If Charlie was like her last girlfriend, she’d be keeping her mouth shut unless it was a compliment—but Charlie (despite being sweet and sensitive) wasn’t fragile. And this was a genuine concern.

She took a deep breath. “...I think we’re going about this wrong. The...Oh, god, how do I...” She frowned. “...Angel’s doing heroin.”

Charlie’s pleasant expression was immediately covered in concern, alarm. “He _is?”_

”Yeah,” she said. “I caught him—look, I... Okay, I might be totally wrong about this, I mean—I used to be a junkie too, and I’m not sure whether that means I’m more qualified to have an opinion on this, or what, but...”

”...I was using heroin because I had... _problems,_ Charlie. Like, tons of problems. I probably needed mental help, back then, but I never got it—but I mean, I only started using heroin, because I thought it might help—and... it felt good, I guess. It felt like something good when nothing else was—between classes, and my girlfriend, and my... job—it was a coping method.”

”Where are you going with this?”

Vaggie gathered her thoughts together, organized them in neat little rows, rows she would get into one at a time so she didn’t sound like an idiot—she squeezed Charlie’s hand right back. “I think if we really want him to quit, we... need to help with other things. Treat the source, you know? Not the symptoms. This is a symptom of some... larger problem.”

Charlie furrowed her brow. “Well, we already bought his contract, Valentino can’t hurt him anymore.”

”I...” She let go of Charlie’s hands, just so she could cup her face gently. “I wish that was true, hon. I really, really wish it was all over—but Valentino is still harassing him. Angel is safe in the hotel, but... Angel can’t spend the rest of his afterlife stuck inside the hotel, and Valentino can get to him outside. I don’t want a repeat of the other day to happen, but I’m not sure how realistic it is to believe we’ll be able to watch over him everyday—and even if Valentino wasn’t a problem, then... I mean, he worked for him for like, seventy years? That’s going to leave scars. Not to mention today just showed that he... He has problems.”

Charlie chewed her lip. “I think you’re right,” she said, slowly. “Even if you’re not, this is definitely something worth checking out—I just... don’t know how we’d start.”

Vaggie sighed. “I should have studied psychology instead of business,” she said. Charlie giggled and kissed her lips gently. “We’ll have to talk to him about it—I... think we need to change things, is all. If we’re really going to help him.”

Vaggie moved her arms to her shoulders, running her fingers through the ends of her yellow hair. “We’ll figure this out,” Charlie said.

Vaggie sighed, but less frustrated—when Charlie said something like that, she could believe her. “I love you,” she said.

“ _T_ _e quiero más._ ”

”I love you most.”

Charlie frowned. “...Is there a way to say _most-est_ in Spanish?” She asked. Vaggie laughed. “Because I don’t think I’ve learned it.”

Her arms slid around Vaggie’s waist. “What are you doing in here anyway?” Vaggie asked.

”Alastor told me you were in here.”

”Oh, no.”

”I thought it was nice,” Charlie said. “He must have been worried about you.”

”...Charlie,” she said, simply. “It’s Alastor.”

”...And he might have been worried about you,” she said. “...Or maybe he thought we were entertaining. Like, like a rom-com!”

”No,” Vaggie said. “We’re not a rom-com—we’re more mature than that, we communicate properly. We don’t like... Um... Give me a romantic comedy trope.”

“Express our love for each other in song?” She grinned, cheekily.

Vaggie laughed again and pulled her closer. “No,” she said. “None of that here. You did not sing about how much you loved me in the hallway earlier.”

”And you did _not_ dance with me in the lobby.”

The first thing Angel did, shaky and sweaty and sore, when he got out of bed that morning was apologize to Cherri and Niffty. Cherri had hugged him and told him it was fine, that he had been acting like a dick, but it was totally cool now, and if he needed to talk about it, she was there. Niffty had beamed up at him and slyly suggested he let her clean his room to convince her to forgive him—and now, he was cleaning his room with Niffty later today, and going shopping with Cherri tomorrow.

And then he took his pigs for a walk.

...The fresh air was disgusting. It made him feel sick—or was that the withdrawals? He didn’t know. Either way, he felt sick so it was a quick walk, much to Peaches’ disappointment—so many new sights and smells, and he couldn’t experience any of them because his new Mama was a fucking mess.

”I need a drink,” he announced, walking over to the bar. He had moved both leashes into one hand so he could cross his top pair and curl his fingers around the edge of the bar counter as he sat down.

”Yeah, you need a drink,” Husk said, already pouring him one—just a simple screwdriver, but it was a drink. “The fuck happened last night?”

”I got in a fistfight with my brother,” he said. Husk slid him his glass with a bendy straw and he stirred his drink with it, idly—he wanted to down it, but wanted to pretend he wasn’t falling apart. “And then cried in the lobby. And then I snuck out to get drug money and ended up (nearly?) cryin’ in front o’ a client.”

Husk looked at him with almost something like sympathy, a far cry from his usual, apathetic expression. “...Damn, Angel.”

”Yeah,” he said. “...It’s been a rough... month.”

He took a sip of his drink—he realized he never liked orange juice, but drank way too much of it. “I keep thinkin’ I should eat somethin’, but I don’t think I can stomach anythin’.”

She might have dropped from the ceiling—maybe she moved so fast she couldn’t be seen, but all of a sudden, Niffty was standing on the bar, staring at him with her giant eye. “I can make you something!”

Angel blinked at her. “...Thanks, baby, but I won’t eat it—you save your cookin’ for when I can enjoy it properly, okay?”

“Oh.” She looked so disappointed—oh, god, she was trying so hard to be nice to him, and he had to turn her down. “Okay, then.” She got off the bar counter and then climbed onto a nearby stool with a rag to clean where she had just stood. She still looked really disappointed and Angel felt like a prick.

The door to the hotel creaked open. He turned to glance, thinking it was Alastor back from his walks he took sometimes or something—

But Arackniss was standing there.

Angel couldn’t help it when he narrowed his eyes. “Husky, handsome—top me off, will ya?”

Husk didn’t say anything, just tilted the vodka bottle into his glass until it was full enough. “That’s why you’re my favorite bartender, Husky.”

”Angel?” He wasn’t gonna look again. Fuck him. _Fuck him._

He drained half his glass. “...God, I really fucked up yesterday, huh?”

”Ya could say that,” he responded. His voice was toneless. He still wasn’t looking.

”...Have...” He heard him step closer. “Have I told you I’m sorry? About that night?” Husk wandered to the other side of the bar. “...Every time I’ve brought it up, you’ve hit me, so... safe to say it was a rough night for you.”

”No _shit.”_

”...God, Angel, I dunno where to start.”

”Start by leavin’ me the fuck alone,” he said. He knew he said he wasn’t going to look at him, but he turned and glared straight through him. “Thanks for helpin’ with my contract or whatever, but... I don’t wanna have a relationship with my _queer_ of a fuckin’ brother. I think ya should get thrown outta your home, disowned, and then go OD in a ditch somewhere. Fuck you.”

”Angel, I never _wanted_ any of what happened that night.”

”And what the fuck does that mean!” He slammed his hand on the countertop. “It still fuckin’ happened! What-What kinda sick joke is it, Pops’ favorite son a fuckin’ queer, just like his least favorite! What a fuckin’ riot—what place does a queer got in the Acciai family, Niss? Tell me, bein’ a queer that’s a part o’ the family still.”

He was pissed—he wanted to lash out. He wanted Arackniss to get angry. He wanted to get into another fistfight. “How long, do ya think. Before the rest o’ the family knows?” Arackniss bristled. “I mean, I managed to get to my thirties, but ya got all of eternity to slip up. And then they’ll know. Ya think Ma’s gonna laugh at ya, like she did with me? Or do you think she’ll go straight for the faintin’?” Niffty was staring at him, Husk was staring, there was a pop of static behind him that was definitely from Alastor, so he was probably also staring. “What about Pops? Do ya think he regrets lettin’ his gay son live? Ya think he loses sleep at night, thinkin’ ‘bout his _dirty fuckin’ queer of a son_ tarnishin’ the family name? Sluttin’ up the streets in his mafia threads?”

His hand was still on the counter, grip tightening. “Ya-Ya think he’s gonna do the same with ya? Disown ya, pretend ya don’t exist? Or do ya think he’ll not let ya know that he knows—so he can get rid o’ ya, real easy, real quiet—“

”Shut the _fuck up, Anthony_!” He shouted. “I came to fuckin’ apologize! Fuck! Can you quit talkin’ ‘bout Pops _murdering_ me?”

”Maybe I don’t want your fuckin’ apology!” He shouted. “Maybe I just wanna be pissed at ya, maybe you should take your fuckin’ apology and shove it up your ass since you’re into that apparently!”

He felt more eyes on him—Charlie, Vaggie and Cherri were watching from the stairs. He was making a fool of himself— _again._

But goddamnit, he was not gonna cry in the lobby again, not because of his asshole of a brother. “Fuck you,” he spat. “I’m goin’ to my room.”

He got up from the stool and looked down at his pig.

...His _singular_ pig.

His blood ran cold—there Peaches was, scratching at the carpet, but Fat Nuggets was nowhere to be found.

He glanced around. “Nuggs?” He called. He peered over the bar. “...Shit, Nuggs, baby, where’d you go?”

...The entrance to the hotel was still open.

”Arackniss, you son of a bitch—ya left the fuckin’ door open!” Already, he knew—some part of him knew, deep down, that Nuggs was already out the door, going somewhere. Alone. Defenseless.

He was a horrible Mama.

He ran to the door. “Fuck!” He must be outside, but when he looked, he didn’t see him anywhere.

”Fuck, how long has he been off his leash? Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Which direction had he gone? Did he know where he was? Did he know his way back? Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Cherri grasped his arm gently. “Ann—“ Oh they were trying new nicknames now? He couldn’t give it much thought, but like, sweet thought. “Just... calm down, you’ve seen his short little legs—he couldn’t get far.”

”But... _where did he go_?” He asked. “Oh my _fuck,_ what kind of a Mama _am_ I?” He ran a hand through his hair—this was overwhelming. His poor pig! Alone in the world, without loves or snuggles or cuddles or snacks! WHat if someone saw a cute pig running down the street and thought, _Oh, what a cute pig, I’ll pignap him!_ Or worse: _Oh, look, there’s my lunch!_

He needed to find him. “I’ll help you look,” Cherri said, reading his mind—fuck, he loved her. If he was straight and she was interested, he’d fucking marry her, she was the fucking _best._

”God-fucking-damnit, Arackniss!” He shouted.

Charlie and Vaggie stepped closer. He looked at them. “I don’t have any money for your fuckin’ swear jar!” He snapped.

”That’s not it,” Charlie said. “We’ll help you look! We can split into two groups, cover more ground.”

They were losing time—his pig was out there.

Charlie and Cherri came with him—Arackniss tailed behind. Alastor cheerfully informed him he usually went the other direction for his walks anyways, so he was familiar with it—his voice showed he didn’t grasp how serious this fucking was, his fucking _pig._ Vaggie said he’d go with him and Husk and Niffty.

He was too sober, going through withdrawals, shaking and sweating and _panicking_.

And he only had one pig.


End file.
